


Katabasis

by penultimatepenguin



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types, Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Minimal Tags to Avoid Spoilers, the key to the red door
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25788442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penultimatepenguin/pseuds/penultimatepenguin
Summary: The folly of placing one's safety in a whistle.
Relationships: Claude Frollo & Jehan Frollo, Claude Frollo & Quasimodo, Esméralda | Esmeralda & Claude Frollo, Esméralda | Esmeralda/Claude Frollo
Comments: 96
Kudos: 86





	1. The Flesh Failures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 Jan 2021: I'm writing this note to just give the reader of this fic a heads-up about what you're getting into. This fic starts off in a dark place, and then goes to some even darker places. This story is, as the title suggests, a katabasis, a downward descent (usually to hell), but it inherently holds the potential of a character's journey upwards (aka the anabasis). Where the story starts will be very different from where it ends up. Beyond that, I'm spoiler adverse, hence minimal tagging, so sit back and be prepared.

Nights were torture. By day he could watch her, eyes fixed on every movement that could see from his cell. He could trace her form in the window pane. His imagination could occupy itself with pondering what words she spoke to the ever present goat. He could glower as he watched Quasimodo attend her, suspicion mingling with contemplation. The knocks on the door could not rouse him. He heard not the voice of the concerned beadle, the reproach of the Bishop, nor pleas of his brother. The unfaltering attention that he had once devoted to his studies, Claude had focused on what he could learn of Esmeralda from his window. 

Once night came, darkness stole her from him. Without a lamp or candle in her cell, the girl was invisible. During those dark hours, the priest was left alone, writhing and groaning. The scenes that passed before his eyes had during these weeks had become too vivid. Far too intricate in their lurid details for Claude to continue to believe that they were solely of his own creation. Witchcraft or devilish trick, it had ceased to matter. It made him seethe, twisting and turning, unable to sleep. 

Tonight, however, he was done resisting. 

What good had his weeks of torment done - he wondered as he tugged his surplice on. If anything, Claude knew that they had damned him further. His weakness, his indulgence. It was all a sin, which only added to everything she had already made him do. He had gone into seclusion, a doomed man, and he emerged eternally lost.

The cloister courtyard was marvelously silent as Claude retrieved the key. Had higher powers not seen fit to aid him, he reasoned that someone would have seen the flicker of his lamp or been roused from sleep as he lifted the key off its hook.

The red door accepted the stolen key and opened with a sigh. Claude slipped into the cathedral, his footfalls echoing in the darkness his feeble flame couldn’t penetrate. He had the second key out and ready long before he reached the door to the tower. 

Each turn of the ascending stairs seemed to coil around him until he was sure he’d break from the anticipation. His skin was flushed by feverish fire, and stepping out onto the landing before the cell, the burst of night air stung his face. The shiver that quaked him, however, came from another sense entirely. 

She was there. There was nowhere else for her to go, but still he felt a jolt the instant he caught sight of her - as it had been since he had first heard her tambourine. Through the cell’s window, the whiteness of her dress glowed like the moon. As he turned to blow out the lamp, her shape continued to burn across his eyes. 

He saw nothing but Esmeralda as he crossed the threshold of her room. 

Her hair, long and dark, spilled over the side of the mattress, and somehow during the turnings of the night, the ill-fitting dress had slid off her shoulder, far enough down so that Claude could see the curve of her breast begin. He inhaled sharply as he fully realized that now if he wished to see her breasts, it was within his power to pull down the dress and expose them for him to devour alone. It was just the two of them now - he didn’t count the sleeping goat.

After all the months that she had possessed him, she was finally his.

He knelt beside the mattress, mesmerized by the rise and fall of her breath. He eventually sat, joining her in bed. Dreamlike, Claude extended his arm, and began to drag the nightdress down. 

With unexpected alertness, the girl rose from the mattress, dark eyes lit with rage. Unable to properly ponder whether she had truly been asleep or if it was a trick of hers, Claude seized upon the moment to entangle her in his arms. He pulled her up, pressing her against him. He gave a low moan, every inch of him overwhelmed with gratitude but still craving more, like parched earth in the heat of summer. 

“Begone, monster.” 

Claude could feel her lips moving against the fabric of his surplice. 

“Begone, assassin.” Her voice had grown in strength as the moonlight faded.

Unperturbed by clouds or how the girl hard started to shake against his grasp, the priest kissed the nape of her neck. “Mercy,” he breathed. “Mercy.” It was all a damned man could ask for now. He pressed his lips to the notch in her collarbone just as he felt her tug at his hair with both hands, yanking his head away from her neck. 

“Mercy,” he pleaded. He turned into her grasp, kissing her wrist. As she let go with a noise of disgust, he said, “If you only knew my love for you.” He touched his lips to her ear. “It’s fire.” A kiss. “Molten lead.” He grazed her jaw. “A thousand daggers in my heart.” He reached her lips.

It had been a poor choice of words, he realized too late, as he felt the bruised sting of his barely healed wound struck by furious hands. He winced, drawing away from the one who had already brought him enough pain. 

“Let me go,” she snarled, glowering at him across the small distance her blow had afforded her, “or I will spit in your face.”

The wound still throbbed, and his grip slackened. “Vilify me.” Gradually, the pain was fading, leaving only his ravenous purpose in its stead. “Strike me. Be malicious. Do what you will....” He cast her a plaintive look. “Have mercy.” His voice cracked. “Love me.”

“Begone, demon.” With renewed vigor, she began to strike, hitting his face, his chest, any part of him she could reach, she flung her fists at. 

“Love me.” He embraced her once again, taking a hold of her left wrist. “Pity me.” He covered her protesting mouth with another burning kiss. His urgency was only growing. The way she thrashed against him, was more than he could bear. “There must be an end to this.” Fate had brought them to this point, and if he had stopped resisting, then he was sure she could as well. 

He covered her trembling body with his own. Each caress a supplication, while every kiss an attack. At last, her protests faded, and for a moment, he was sure that she had surrendered. 

A metal screech ripped through the night, a piercing tone. 

Ears still ringing, Claude managed between breaths, “What was that?” The shrill sound had stunned him, so loud and so close, that he barely recognized it as a blow from a whistle before she sounded it again. A high, desperate cry that reverberated around the tiny room. “Enough!” He ripped the tiny pipe from her grasp and threw it aside. Dimly, he heard the clatter as the whistle landed and rolled away. He panted, glowering at the girl.

“He’ll be here soon.” Her voice quavered. 

He gave the girl a shake, nails digging deep into her skin. “Who?” the archdeacon spat. “Some devil or demon?” An infernal whistle was no doubt adequate to summon a beast from Hell. “Tell me.” Fear brought a different desperation to every word he spoke. “Whom have you summoned?”

The answer was barely more than a whisper. “The bellringer.” 

His grip loosened, and a laugh escaped his lips. “Quasimodo? You cannot summon him with that! Not even if you were to blow with all your might.” It had been clear within weeks of the boy becoming bellringer that the bells would take their own toll. Within a year, Claude had entirely replaced sound with sign when conversing with Quasimodo. 

“He said he could hear it,” protested Esmeralda, eyes turned towards the door. “That I could summon him.” 

Each passing second was a victory. Claude watched the hope fade as she paled, fear returning. Besides the frantically bleating goat, there was no one else. She was at the mercy of the spider who had ensnared her after tortuous patience. Claude sneered, pulling her closer to him. “The boy lied.”

She leaned away, with a glare and a retort. “You lied. I know Phoebus is alive!”

“Don’t-” hissed the priest, “say his name.” 

“Phoebus is alive,” she repeated. Once again, she began to push at him, gaining distance between herself and the priest.

The blows were nothing to Claude. The Captain’s name bruised deeper than her fists. Rising from the mattress, he took her face in his hands, forcing her chin up, as he half-stood, bent over. The taut strain in the tendons of her neck made his breathing quicken once again. Despite the rage and anguish, he knew his purpose here. So long as Esmeralda was alive, she would never let him forget. “You are cruel and hateful. But he is crueler still.”

Through gritted teeth, she said, “He is noble, and you are hateful.” 

“You foolish girl,” Claude sighed. His thumb stroked her cheek. “Why can’t you see what is so plain? He does not deserve your devotion, let alone the breath it takes to say his name. You say it like a prayer, but were you any wiser, it would be a curse upon your lips.” Bitterness clung to every word as he resigned himself to explication. 

Her lower lip jutted out in contempt. Had the urgent importance of his words not pressed him on, he would have kissed it, drawing her up against his yearning body, sharing his heat with her. He shivered at the thought, but he was compelled to continue. 

“Your name is meaningless to him, and you…” His features twisted with disgust, “are worth even less to him.” The way she looked at him, he had no choice. To make her comprehend the depths of his torment, she had to suffer gravely herself. To understand his pain, she had to see how she shared it. 

“I never told you how I came to follow that captain. That fateful day you were to meet, he bragged about his licentious plans - not a thought spared for decency or your modesty. It was no secret to all the drunken fools in Paris what that captain was going to do to the gypsy, La Smeralda, Similar. He was proud of it. Proud enough that when honor was challenged, he happily exchanged the privacy of your rendezvous for some coin.” A long deep breath was barely enough to calm his anger brought by recounting the revolting, shameful truth. “You weren’t just his conquest to seduce and abandon. Your modesty, your most… intimate moments were his to sell. You were his to prostitute to-”

“You lie!” insisted Esmeralda, tugging free from him. Her eyes glistened, and she gasped for air. “You lied, and you are lying. I will never believe a word you say!”

With a gentle shake of his head, Claude murmured, “You don’t have to believe it for it to be true. I fought so hard for the truth not to come out-”

“That you would have murdered Phoebus, and let me die for your crime.” Though acrid spite clung to her words, there was a heaviness that, like a drowning man’s wool clothes, that was pulling her under. 

Claude rested his hands on her shoulders lightly. “I may have nearly killed a man, but what you have done is far more grievous.” As he spoke, he pressed harder, kneeling on the mattress. “You’ve damned a man.” His whole weight shoved her down onto her back. “That was your purpose all along, wasn’t it? To possess me until a darker master could take your place.” Fury fueled his desperation. Savage need guided his ignorant hands as his dominating caresses pinned her down. Still on his knees, he leaned over her, parting her kicking legs with his body. He could feel the stone floor through the thin mattress. 

Her shouted protests and insults were drowned out by the rush of blood each thundering heartbeat brought. His hand trembled as he raised her skirt. He cursed the darkness of the cell that robbed him of full appreciation of all that he had long been denied. But, as he ran his fingertips down the curve of her hip, a new thrill coursed through him, arching his spine. He could feel her bones hidden under soft flesh. Her heartbeat was underneath his thumb as he trailed lower, curving inward until he met himself. 

The dance between starved passion and uncertain dread made him fumble. In agony, he panted, prodding blindly until finally he perceived the hint of give - the unwilling invitation he had been aching for. Reservation abandoned him, and he felt himself plunging towards her. 

There was a raw scream, though it seemed very far away to Claude as he pushed deeper against her resistance. For all the times he had imagined this union, he had failed to consider the enveloping warmth, the tension that grew the further he went, until finally he could go no farther. Completely pressed against her, he tried to linger, but he had ceased to have any dominion over his own body. 

As he drew back, each fiber of his being groaned in protest until finally, the second blissful thrust that left him breathing raggedly. The tortuous need was only growing, filling him. He wanted to hold still, wanted to memorize every scintillation, even if he was doomed to fail. A sole purpose moved him again, frantic and feverish, but at last, he felt the surge pass through him. There was nothing that would stop the flood. 

His body slackened with the final ripple, and he slowly lowered himself towards her. More tenderly than he before believed possible, he kissed the unexpectedly silent lips of Esmeralda. He lay half beside her, half covering her, dazed and trembling with awe. Languidly, he reached out to trace a path from her cheek to neck, before resting to cradle the back of her neck. Heart no longer racing, the world around him slowed, and Claude allowed his eyes to close. 

The coolness of the night crept in far too quickly. Shivering, he stared up at the sloping roof above them. If only they were almost anywhere but here. It was better than the damp straw in that frigid dungeon, but it was still abhorrently dismal. Undeniably, all that had transpired here was more enjoyable than the countless times the thought of her had forced his hand to work against his own will. He hadn’t been prepared for the astonishment of his surrender.

And yet, as grand as the moment had been, the priest could feel the pangs of deprivation. They had already been denied a simple, free life by fate, but even within the confines of the roles they had been cast in, he had known that there could have been something kinder than this. She had had it in her power to choose him before; they had had the chance to escape to boundless happiness. But to him, she had been intent on increasing his torment as she dragged him down deeper into the abyss. There was no escape.

Pulled by a rending sob, he sat upright. Shaking, he buried his face in his hands. Each cry ripped through him. His tears burned his hands. 

“Pathetic.” 

Though the word was soft, Claude heard it, back stiffening.

“Pathetic old man.”

He turned to face her, though she kept her gaze fixed pointedly at the rafters. “I…” he started before he had even thought of a response. He ran the sleeve of his nightshirt across his face, though it served to only make him feel more raw. “I…” He could see the marks on her skin in the dim moonlight. No doubt there were more that he couldn’t see. “You should have chosen me,” he whispered. “It could have been…” The words clawed at his throat and he got to his feet, stepping over her. He could feel the scorching tears returning. He turned away from her. She would no doubt insult him should she see that once again he was about to cry. “You didn’t have to make it be like this.”

The hollow laugh was piercing. He would have turned around to strike her had she not then added, “Everything you’ve done, you’ve chosen. I chose to die.” 

Before he could contain himself, he hissed, “I wish you had.” Unable to endure whatever the girl might say, the priest ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologize in addition to thanking you for reading this rather brutal start to a fic that has a lot more going on than just Claude being… like that… 
> 
> For me, it has always been a bit of a plot hole that Quasimodo would have heard the whistle he gave Esmeralda, even if he was sleeping right by her room. I recently decided to try to write a canon divergence fic that would explore the fall-out from Quasimodo not hearing the whistle, and how the characters would handle everything that followed. It should go without saying that you’re reading the results of that experiment. 
> 
> Please, if you have made it this far, let me know what you think with a comment or a kudos. It really brightens up my day when I see that readers are enjoying what I write, though ‘enjoy’ here might not be the most accurate word.  
> Thank you!


	2. Blood

The tears hadn’t stopped by dawn. At first she had fought them, blinking fiercely as she lay aching, determined to prove that at least on this account, she was stronger than the priest. She wouldn’t weep like he had done. But as Djali began to nuzzle her, the flood started. She wished she could say it had been solely because of the pain from sitting up and wrapping her arms around Djali’s neck, but she knew that her cheeks were already wet before she buried her face in Djali’s hair. 

For a time, the goat had been dutiful - standing beside her, tolerating the increasing dampness - but when the first inklings of grey light crept into the cell, Djali had given an entreating maa and started to walk away. 

“Please,” Esmeralda managed. “Stay.” She reached out, but Djali was already too far. As the goat settled in the corner, Esmeralda wiped her hand across her face. In the feeble dawn, Esmeralda could finally see the purple bruise blooming around her wrist. How many others had the monster given her? Her very heart seemed to have been crushed underneath him. 

“Water,” she whispered. Even if it would take the deepest lake to wash away the grime and cleanse her spirit, at the very least, she could ease her thirst. As she started to rise from the bed, agony seized her. A piercing stab went up into her core, and the girl cried out falling back upon the bed. She trembled, feeling the ghost of his hand holding her down, his weight pressing against her, suffocating her. She gasped for air as the shadow of the night replayed before her eyes.

The storm of pain finally ebbed, leaving in its wake the raw ache that had throbbed throughout the night. Gingerly, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. The sun was brighter now - morning proper. 

The whistle was nowhere to be seen, Esmeralda realized as she scanned the cell. Wherever the priest had thrown it, she doubted she would ever find it. “Not that it matters,” she said ruefully to Djali. The priest had been so certain that there had never been any hope of summoning the bellringer as he had promised. 

“He lied.” 

The words tore at her. The one person who had kept her company these past weeks, the one person who had dared to save her despite her wishes - he had deceived her. She stared at the jug of water he had supplied for her, wishing she had never felt pity for that man at all. If she had been less kind all those months ago, if she had possessed the hatred she should have for the one who tried to carry her off, then she would have long since escaped the mortal world. 

It hurt less to rise this time, and she started for the corner where she kept her provisions, stopping only as she felt something thick and warm begin to slip out from inside her. Her stomach turned as she considered actually looking at what was now seeping down her leg. No, she could guess exactly what she would find, and she knew she wasn’t ready for that sight. 

She lifted the water jug to her lips. It felt like a salve, soothing and healing as she swallowed mouthful after mouthful. She poured a few drops into her palm, and washed her face as best she could. Once she could no longer feel the tear marks, she turned back to face the bed. 

A battle had been fought and lost there - what else could have caused such an ugly stain? Look, father, you have blood on your fingers. She shuddered. First he had shed Phoebus’s blood, then his own, and finally he had taken hers. 

“The foul vampire,” she hissed. She knelt down to place her hands between the bed and the floor. “The hateful monster.” Mustering the remnants of her strength, she flipped the mattress over with a loud smack that earned a startled bleat from the goat. “Sorry, Djali.” The clopping of hooves came as a response, fading as the goat exited the cell. 

Modesty refused to let Esmeralda follow in only her shift. She tugged the loaned kirtle over her head. As she reached to lace it, her fingers passed over her amulet. Her stomach clenched. The charm’s terms had been clear - its virtue required her virtue. 

“I’ll never…” She choked back the words, as if by not uttering the truth out loud, there was still hope that someday she would be reunited with her family. It was a foolish thing to think, she knew. Childish and simple-minded. But, it was the last inch of hope she could cling to as she dangled above the abyss, grip slipping and fingertips bleeding as they grasped for purchase. 

Bereft and robbed, Esmeralda continued to dress. It had been one thing to sacrifice one family for another - her parents for Phoebus. Even if his position prevented him from properly being hers, at least it was Phoebus, someone she loved, someone who could protect her, and she could look upon without shuddering. The thought of his touch still warmed her - he didn’t burn nor had his grasp ever felt like ice. 

“It should have been you, it should have been you,” she repeated under her breath, clothing herself in the white surcoat. She wrapped the veil around her head, though she knew her hair was, as usual, still almost completely visible. “Not that ugly, horrendous, lying priest.” Too many things seethed inside her for Esmeralda to articulate a single counter argument or proof that he had lied about the captain, but wholeheartedly rejected anything the priest said except for his parting words. Of that matter, they were in complete agreement. 

Stepping out onto the gallery, Esmeralda quickly caught sight of Djali. She hadn’t wandered far, merely to a spot underneath her window. The goat nudged at something out of Esmeralda’s sight with her nose. Curious, Esmeralda knelt down. “What’s that Djali?” she asked, expecting to see the whistle or else something left by the bellringer. Instead, the goat pushed a stone to her.

As her hand closed around the heavy shard, Esmeralda looked up to where the frightening sculpture had once hung before Quasimodo destroyed it. To anyone else, it was just a fragment of Notre Dame. To the desperate girl, it was the cathedral’s most precious gift. 

***

Her dread had been growing long before the Vespers bells tolled. By the time the last vibrations of the melody had faded, Esmeralda had assumed her position underneath the covers, her fist and the rock it clenched both safely out of sight. 

Darkness filled the cell. How long did she have until he attacked again? Her shoulder and hip were already aching from laying on her side, but she didn’t dare move. What if he was out there in the night, peering through the window, waiting? With her back to the doorway, she had no way of knowing, though the way her skin prickled and crawled, she was sure that if she turned, she would see the infernal blaze of his eyes. 

The rustling of Djali in her sleep nearly made Esmeralda jump, but when no sound of footsteps or rustling of robes followed, Esmeralda let out her breath. She stared at the wall, wishing that the tears the priest had shed could be taken as a promise that he would not return. Whether shame, guilt, or some other emotion had overcome him then, she prayed that it would keep him far away tonight. 

But she knew better. 

For months he had been a specter, trailing her, always ready with his scowl. He had never ceased his advance towards her. Even if she couldn’t see him, even in those moments she had believed she was free, he was always lurking nearby. 

She shivered and slunk further under the threadbare blanket, as if it could thaw the chill the very thought of him brought. But, not even the richest furs could possibly manage that. 

Whether it was the ragged breaths or frantic footfalls that she heard first, the priest announced his presence in the cell without a word. Esmeralda tightened her grip around the rock, reassured by the sharpness that nearly cut her skin. His steps halted before her, and Esmeralda shut her eyes, wishing she couldn’t see his grimacing leer from behind closed lids. 

“I thought I knew torture, but…” He sank down onto the mattress, “today has proven how mistaken I have been.” Through the blanket, he stroked her calf.

She could strike, kicking with her feet, but he would then know that she was awake, and she couldn’t be sure that her blow would be worth the risk. Besides, what she held now was stronger, harder than she could ever be.

“Instead of freedom, I am even more compelled.” His hand wandered higher as he spoke. “Prayers died on my lips, replaced by your name.” He crept up from the foot of the bed. “What a spell you have placed on me! What madness you have created, Esmeralda!” 

Hearing her name upon his lips brought a metallic taste to her tongue. Bile? No. She had grit her teeth so hard she had torn her cheek. 

“Ever since I left, I knew I was powerless to stop myself from returning,” he whispered. “Try as I might, I cannot escape you.” The kiss he pressed to her exposed shoulder felt more a brand than a mark of tenderness. “Nor can you escape by pretending I am not here.”

Now. 

With only the quickest upward glance, Esmeralda wound up to strike. She hoped her trembling didn’t slow her. If she was too slow, she didn’t want to imagine how he would punish her. Her arm darted out from the blanket, aiming for the priest’s nearly bald temple. As much relief as the thud of the impact brought, her terror grew only greater. Despite the darkness, she could see shock at the blow momentarily flash across his face, before he collapsed heavily on top of her. 

She scrambled, pushing the unconscious man off of her and clambering to her feet. She didn’t pause to survey the damage she had inflicted. She had to run - find somewhere in the tower to hide; even leaving the supposed sanctuary of the cathedral seemed safer than staying here, waiting for the priest to wake. 

Outside on the gallery, the moon lit her way as she dashed mindlessly off until she crashed into a familiar dark, sleeping figure. She had seen him laying across her door many nights before. He seemed more a boulder than a man, even as he jerked awake. 

His one good eye met hers. The terror on her face was far easier to read than lips. Lumbering to his feet, the bellringer withdrew a long knife and started towards her cell.

The hunchback held the knife high, ready to strike, and cautiously, Esmeralda followed, relieved that tonight the deaf man would be able to defend her. The whistle might have failed, but at least Quasimodo’s intentions remained true. He would protect her - teeth gnashing and knife flashing. 

As the pair drew closer to the cell, Esmeralda perceived the faintest moan. Once again, her arm rose, the rock clutched in her shaking hand. 

Stumbling into the moonlight, the priest pressed a hand to his temple, half-oblivious. He glanced around, without focus. Lost in familiar land, he blinked. 

She nearly ran into Quasimodo again, so suddenly her protector had stopped. Gradually, he lowered the knife, transfixed.

“You?” 

The hunchback’s word hung between the three of them, fragile and weak, yet it stole the breath from Esmeralda.

The priest finally turned towards them, displeasure and pain gradually twisting his face as clarity replaced the clouded fog. Blood showed between his fingers and trickled down the side of his cheek. It darkly glimmered in the pale light as the priest coldly stared. Under his gaze, Quasimodo seemed to shrink. 

As the priest began to gesticulate furiously, the bellringer flinched. More signs from the man, and Quasimodo trembled forward, handle of the knife turned for the priest to take. “Do all that you please,” he whispered hoarsely, “but kill me first.” 

For that instant, Esmeralda was sure that her heart stopped, only to be jolted back to life by searing fury. Failure had become betrayal. She lunged forward for the knife, still limply held by Quasimodo, waiting for the priest to comprehend the pitiful request. Her impulse, however, loosed the knife from Quasimodo’s hand. As it skittered to a halt, the priest crouched to pick it up.

“Kill me first,” repeated Quasimodo, strength returning briefly to his form, only to be extinguished by a violent one-handed gesture the rising priest made. A kicked dog, Quasimodo backed away. His eyes fixed on the stone floor, he murmured, “I’m sorry,” though it did not seem like he knew to whom he was apologizing. 

“What… what did you say?” stammered Esmeralda, tearing her gaze away from the retreating form of the hunchback. 

Disregarding her question, the priest considered his bloodstained fingers. “I’m bleeding,” he said, surprised. Once again his left hand touched his wounded temple. He cast his eyes upward, lips slightly parted, though no words moved them. 

Accustomed to his monologic ramblings, Esmeralda uneasily regarded the silent man, only briefly glancing to see that Quasimodo was no longer anywhere in sight. She folded her arms across her chest, though the summer night was warm enough for her simple shift. How long did she have to suffer through this? 

More forceful this time, “What did you say?” 

The priest shook, startled by her voice. He turned to face her slowly. His lip twitched before finally saying, “Cast away your weapon, and I’ll tell you.”

Resolutely, Esmeralda pressed the stone to her heart. Though it was less menacing than the knife the priest now held, it was still her best defense. She could depend on nothing else.

Even with the befuddling ache, Claude saw no ambiguity in the girl’s stance. With a deep and dizzying sigh, he turned. “Very well,” he breathed. The pulsating wound refused to let him think. All he could consider was the disorienting stairs before him. He edged downwards in the darkness, half convinced that if he ceased to hold onto the stone wall, he would begin to spin, tumbling down, breaking long before he reached the bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it to the end of this chapter! I hope that this one was a little more "fun" to read, since Claude got some of what he deserves. 
> 
> I'd like to give a special shout out to Elise for helping me with this chapter, since she spotted some places that needed a little more attention, and I am much happier with this final product than what I had been about to post. 
> 
> Please consider leaving a comment or kudos. Seeing that people are reading and engaging with my story really makes me happy, and I love hearing what people think. 
> 
> Thank you again!


	3. Willow and Myrtle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end notes for any translations of Latin or Greek.

The gap between the door and wall was no wider than his smallest finger, but the deviation from the resolutely locked door that had greeted him for the past few weeks turned it into a wide gulf. Peering through the crack, no movement betrayed his brother’s presence in the darkened cell. “He must have left without anyone noticing,” mused Jehan, wondering if perhaps this was not the first time in his brother’s seclusion that he had slipped away from the cloister, maybe even Notre Dame entirely. The boy could scarcely imagine surviving days, let alone nearly two months, confined within such a tiny chamber. 

Wherever Claude had gone, Jehan was sure that he would return. And if it wasn’t quite as soon as he liked, he was sure that his brother had a purse or even a few coins that could reward Jehan’s patience. Decisively, Jehan pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside. 

The air that greeted him was sweetly fetid - distinctly cramped and human. It erased any doubt that his brother had left the cell in the weeks before today. Fermented sweat, something festering, and an unexpectedly familiar sharpness all hung heavy in the air. Jehan quickly crossed to the shuttered window. Even if his brother had grown accustomed to the pungent rankness of his solitude, Jehan felt no obligation to suffer. Besides, the room was too dim to search. 

Mere moments after Jehan undid the shutters and daylight streamed in, a wincing groan came from behind him. Jehan jumped and spun around. Had his brother slunk in behind him? No. Jehan froze as he watched as something stirred under the bed covers. He swallowed. His brother’s cell had not been empty after all. 

“Brother Claude, I…” the boy started, dreading the lecture that his intrusion would inspire.

Bewildered eyes instead of enraged ones scanned the room as the archdeacon propped himself up on his elbows. His gaze passed over Jehan several times before finally, the wrinkles of his brow deepened. 

“The door was open,” stammered Jehan, unnerved by his brother’s unfocused stare. “I thought that you were out, and I was…”

As Claude turned his head to the door, Jehan gaped, falling into silence. Against his brother’s paled face, the deep purple swelling seemed nearly black. A crust of blood ran down past his ear, along the side of his face, its source an unmistakable gash in the middle of the bruise. 

Despite how alarming the ugliness of the wound was, relief began to dilute to shock that had seized him. At least now Jehan could account for the bizarreness of his brother’s gaze. It was the same dazed expression he had seen on Robin Pouissepain’s face the time he had tried to climb a ladder after a night of wine. The lump on the back of Robin’s head had lasted longer than his befuddled mood.

Confident his brother’s state was only transient, Jehan saw no reason for solemnity. “Let me guess, the Bishop grew tired of your truancy,” said Jehan, a smile creeping on his lips a little too easily at the thought of his brother being punished for something he had often reprimanded Jehan for in the past. “Weeks of neglecting your duties required him to dispense some discipline? Hardly _culpae poena par esto_ , but-”

His brother’s sudden retching was enough reprimand to steal the mirth from his expression. Jehan wrinkled his nose. The tiny room had no need for yet another overpowering stench, but he watched as his brother’s body voiced obvious disagreement. 

“You could at least try not to make a mess,” sighed Jehan. After all the times Claude had seen fit to chide him, Jehan wasn’t about to let the opportunity to return the favor pass him by. “At least you got most of it on the floor.” He glanced around the room, finally catching sight of what he hoped was a water jug. The container was light, but water still sloshed around inside as Jehan brought it to his brother. 

Finished, Claude trembled at the edge of the bed. He only seemed to notice Jehan’s presence beside him after the second nudge with the jug. His amber eyes met his brother’s, and he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his nightshirt. Wordlessly he took the jug, but didn’t bring it to his lips.

“What are you doing here?” the priest managed. Hoarse and weak, his voice scarcely rose above a whisper.

Jehan effected an offended gasp. “For weeks you've been ignoring me! For weeks I’ve been knocking on your door, pleading with you to open it, and you finally leave your door open so I can see my poor invalid brother, and all my weeks of concern and worry are repaid with such a welcome!”

Unimpressed and unmoved, Claude said, “Money, then. You want money.” 

Jehan felt his cheeks redden. Even half-dazed, his brother still recognized the slip in verbiage that betrayed his true purpose. “No, well, yes,” faltered Jehan, as his mind furiously worked. “I want money, yes, but that’s only because physicians require money, and I have been so worried about you, and your sickness.”

“I am a physician.” He drank from the jug. “It’s just a commotion of the brain,” he added as he set it down. 

“ _Medice, cura te ipsum_ ,” countered Jehan with a broad grin. 

The priest gave a heavy sigh. “ _Ἰατρέ, θεράπευσον σεαυτόν_ ,” he corrected. 

“I see whatever blow you took didn’t shake that obsession with Greek.” It would have been reassuring to know that his brother’s memory for the ancient language was still intact if Jehan didn’t find it so obnoxious. “Why be clear when you can be obscure!” 

The excitement in Jehan’s voice earned a flinch from Claude. “Why shout when I am right here?” he groaned.

“Oh, that was hardly a shout,” retorted Jehan. “I could certainly demonstrate what a shout is, though.”

“Entirely unnecessary.” Claude laid down again, covering his eyes with his hand. “Go. Please. Close the shutters and the door. Just please. Go.”

“No.” 

Claude peered out between his fingers. 

Clasping his hands behind his back, Jehan bounced on the balls of his feet. “No. I don’t think I will.”

An annoyed noise escaped Claude, though he sat up again, resignation plain on his tired face. 

“How long has it been? You’ve been something of a recluse these past few weeks,” Jehan continued. “I can understand not wanting to talk to the Bishop, but me?” There had been plenty of times Jehan had visited the cloister to find that his brother was out or otherwise occupied, but never before had Jehan felt the sting of being so purposefully ignored by Claude. That wasn’t the brother he knew. “And, before that…” remembered Jehan, “you were busy and…” He held up his hands searching for any word that could properly convey the distracted frenzy that had consumed his brother the last time he had seen him. “And now this!”

“Please, Jehan-”

“At least tell me how you got that!” burst Jehan.

Claude clenched the blanket with a fist. The tendons in his neck tensed, and finally, Claude met his brother’s gaze long enough to utter, “I don’t recall,” and once again, looked away.

It was a lie. Of that, Jehan was completely certain, but if his pious brother had resolved to commit this sin, Jehan doubted the priest could be moved. He wouldn’t disclose the secret willingly, but in time, the truth would be known. How many times had Claude said so much himself after catching his brother in an obvious lie? Jehan looked forward to the day he could remind Claude of that. 

“Well, with an injury like that, people are going to want to know the story?” Actually, Jehan doubted most would have the courage to ask the severe man about the wound. “Might I suggest ‘you should see the other guy?’”

Color rose to Claude’s cheeks as he said, “I am not about to imply-”

“Fine, just say you fell down the stairs and hit a sconce, or maybe you had an accident with some alchemy experiment. I’m merely telling you, you’re going to probably have to offer some kind of explanation. It’s best to think of a story ahead of time, since it’s a lot harder to come up with one on the spot.” The accusatory glare from his brother made Jehan quickly add, “So I’ve been told.”

“I’m sure.” His tone expressed little faith in Jehan’s words. Tentatively, Claude touched his fingers to the dark bruise, only to withdraw them quickly with a hiss. 

“Shame you don’t have enough hair to cover that up,” said Jehan. For as long as Jehan could remember, his brother’s hair had been waning and streaked with grey, but now he could see white amongst the remaining strands. In fact, Jehan concluded as he regarded Claude, the seclusion had paled and thinned his brother as a whole. Jehan couldn’t doubt that Dom Claude hadn’t been well in a long time. Attempting a playful air despite the realization, Jehan added, “And you don’t have to tell me about the perils of vanity, as I have no intention of listening to whatever you are about to say on the matter.”

The slightest smile flickered across Claude’s face. “My hair would have to be longer and thicker than yours for there to be any hope of that.” He closed his eyes for some time, still remaining upright. 

A silence fell upon the room that Jehan was surprised he felt no inclination to break. No, he left that to his brother. 

“Just as dull as it is sharp,” murmured Claude, opening his eyes. “Like a rock.”

Though Jehan didn’t follow how his brother’s pain was at all similar to a rock, he gave a slight nod. “It’ll fade. Might take a few days, but…” He shrugged. “You’ll be fine.”

“Until then,” the priest said, “I have willow and myrtle. Oh myrtle. _Populus Alcidae gratissima, uitis Iaccho,  
formosae myrtus Veneri, sua laurea Phoebo_ \--” His face had twisted into a scowl. “Damnation, always that Phoebus, always that -” 

“Catullus, right?” It was not truly a question, as Jehan had no interest in learning the author of the poetry Claude had recited, mutilating the rhythm of the verse with his furious breaths. 

Attention snapping to the only other occupant of the room, Claude spat, “What?”

Without any conscious thought, the boy took a few steps backwards from the snarling dog that had replaced his brother. “Verse about the poplars, vines, myrtle, and laurel… the pagan gods and plants. I asked if it was Catullus, but actually, now that I think more on it,” as he spoke, he watched how the tension in his brother’s face and shoulders slacked, how his breaths came at a more natural rate, “I realize that it has to be Ovid.”

Claude blinked. “Vergilius. Haven’t you read the Eclogues?” Disappointment drew a sigh from the priest, who seemed to not need any answer to know that even if his brother had been instructed to read the work, there was little chance that he had even scanned the text. “Never mind,” he muttered with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just go and get me some water hot enough for a tisane.”

The water was still hot enough, Jehan decided. The water that sloshed over the pail and soaked his hose had thankfully cooled from seething boil it had been in the kitchens, but it still made Jehan wince with each spill as he climbed the stairs. Finally, he reached his brother’s door. “Before you say anything about taking so long,” began Jehan as he pushed the door open, “I’m sorry, but you need-” The words died on his lips as he saw his brother.

No longer sitting up in bed, Claude had migrated to the window. Transfixed, he stared at the world outside. He gripped the windowsill, knuckles pale and bloodless. With the other hand, he braced himself against the wall. His soiled nightshirt hung limply from his shoulders, falling down to the tops of his calves. 

Loudly, Jehan set the bucket down, though he took enough care to avoid spilling any more water. His brother didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest. Jehan groaned and once again opened the chamber door so he could create a thunderous slam.

Instead of a startled jump, the elder brother responded with a terse, “Was that really necessary?” still not turning to face Jehan. 

“Perhaps not, I suppose, if you don’t mind anyone who passes by seeing you like that,” said Jehan. He couldn’t imagine his brother tolerating even the chance that someone might see him in such a state of undress. “Though your stench would probably keep them at a distance.”

That tore the priest away from the window. 

“I can smell every day of your illness,” Jehan went on. “Hardly the worst stench, but if you don’t do something about it, you’ll pollute the whole cloister with foul air.” He nudged the pail he had brought. “I made sure to bring enough. Brew the bark and… whatever else, but in the meantime stop playing Diogenes.” 

Wordlessly, Claude glowered at Jehan as he crossed the room to retrieve a glass vial and cup he had set out on a chest. He dunk the cup into pail, filling the cup with the still warm water. He gently shook some flecks of the dried substance into the cup with an expert precision that Jehan assumed had been developed over years of work in his private study. In smooth circles, Claude swirled the contents of the cup, not spilling a single drop. 

“I can see why they say you’re a sorcerer,” joked Jehan.

Claude set the cup down to seep. “Alchemy is not sorcery, and this isn’t alchemy.” He picked up the bucket, still more than half-full. “It’s merely the application of the properties--”

“I know what it is.” Jehan rolled his eyes. “I don’t need you to explain that that infusion will help with the pain. You don’t have to turn every moment into a lesson.” He walked to the window. “Just clean yourself.” He rested his elbows against the window and as he heard the rustling of fabric, Jehan leaned out the window.

The scene below hardly seemed worth any fascination. The cloister’s garden probably hadn’t been what had been enough to consume his brother’s attention. As water splashed behind him, Jehan continued his survey of his brother’s view. Though the cloister yard was empty, Jehan supposed that his brother could have been watching someone, perhaps a priest or servant, who had been walking there before. It was hardly something that would have occupied Jehan’s interest, but the cloistered life was so dull that even the most mundane comings and goings might serve as entertainment.

“Careful you don’t fall out.”

Unperturbed by his brother’s warning, Jehan shrugged. “If I do, I’ll land on my feet, like a cat.” 

“You’ll break your neck.”

Lifting his gaze from the walls of the cloister to the cathedral itself, Jehan countered, “No, I don’t fancy I will.” A flash of white. Jehan immediately sought it high up in Notre Dame. A person. “So she really is here,” he exclaimed.

“Who?” The splashes had stopped. 

“The gypsy girl. The witch.” It was so strange to see her dressed in white like a novice nun instead of the colorful costume she dressed in. There was no doubting it was her, however. Who else had a goat that followed them around like that. “La Esmeralda.”

A cough was the priest’s response. 

The girl seemed to be pacing, walking from one end of the gallery to the other. If he squinted, Jehan could see her lips moving. Was she talking to the goat? Possibly, but the motions seemed too repetitive for it to be any conversation. A prayer? A spell? 

Behind Jehan, a trunk closed. 

“I think people have forgotten about her,” Jehan said. “Used to be all anyone could talk about. That rescue.” His brother had probably seen it for himself. “Do you think there’s any truth to it?”

“To what? Rumors? She’s a witch, that has been proven, by her own admission. No need for gossip.” His brother’s words came fast and stilted, as if the next word had to push the preceding one out. 

“No. That Quasimodo saved her in exchange for her bed.”

Jehan barely had time to realize he was being grabbed from behind before he was stumbling to find his balance again inside the cell. Bewildered, he stared at his brother. 

Fully dressed, the priest stood before Jehan, fire raging in his eyes. 

“What?” 

Through clenched teeth, Claude hissed, “Get out.” Fresh blood beaded on the pulsing wound. 

A sole purpose seized Jehan. Abandoning all fraternal concern and all hopes of departing with his purse a little heavier, Jehan ran from the room. He stumbled down the stairs, nearly falling twice. On the ground of the cloister, Jehan looked up, expecting to see his brother at the window, ready to hurl a final admonition at him before he ran back to school. 

His brother was at the window, yes, but it wasn’t Jehan who had drawn him there. Raptured, Claude looked upward, completely missing the obscene gestures Jehan made with gusto before boredom overtook his indignation. There was no pleasure to be had in offending his brother when Claude refused to even cast a glance down his way. Soured and sullen, Jehan strode away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations/Notes:  
> Culpae poena par esto - "punishment that fits the crime", a Roman maxim  
> Medice, cura te ipsum/Ἰατρέ, θεράπευσον σεαυτόν - "Physician, heal yourself"  
> Populus Alcidae gratissima, uitis Iaccho,/  
> formosae myrtus Veneri, sua laurea Phoebo - "The poplar is most dear to Alcides, the vine to Bacchus, for lovely Venus the myrtle, and for Phoebus his own laurel", from Virgil's Eclogues, VII.61-63.  
> Commotion of the brain - Concussion  
> \--
> 
> And with the business of translation and explanation out of the way, allow me to thank you for reading this chapter! I am so sorry for the wait. I hope that this was worth the extra time I took to write it.
> 
> I am very excited to have Jehan finally appear in the story. He's a fun character to write, and I hope you enjoyed reading him and seeing him with Claude. 
> 
> Please leave kudos or comment to let me know what you thought about this chapter or the story as a whole. I truly love hearing from you guys, and it really does make me smile. 
> 
> Thank you!


	4. The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, it has been quite the adventure to get this chapter posted. Most of you probably haven't been following the comments, so I'll catch you up.  
> My laptop had some hard-drive issues, and it quickly became clear that the hard-drive was dead. I tried to access this account through my other devices, but it turned out that I had only ever logged onto this account (and the gmail account associated with it) on my laptop. Whoops.  
> Long story short, while working with the Ao3 team and anxiously waiting for my laptop to come back, I did finish and post this chapter on my tumblr. Thankfully, I now have access to my account (yay!), and I am so, so happy to finally be able to post this chapter.  
> Thank you for your patience and support! I will shut up now and let you get to the chapter. I will hopefully see you at the end!

The first night, she barely slept. Too exhausted to stay awake, but too vigilant to let even the softest rustle not be searched for in the darkness. More than once, jolted awake, Esmeralda had wearily lain, watching as Djali settled yet again for more unburdened rest. “How lucky you are,” she had murmured, before sleep crept upon her. As the new day dawned, Esmeralda had found herself with Djali at her feet, blissfully alone. 

After the second night, her head no longer felt heavy, nor did her bones complain as she paced up and down the gallery. She didn’t find her eyelids drooping as she watched the square below. 

Readying herself after her third unperturbed night, Esmeralda thankfully noted how the bruises on her wrists had begun to fade. Her pain had diminished enough that she had to think about it to notice the subtle twinges and aches. 

Waking from the fourth night’s slumber, Esmeralda had looked around the tiny cell, illuminated by the growing morning rays. The customary basket of food and a jug of fresh water had been placed just on the other side of her threshold. 

Quasimodo had seemed to be taking even greater pains than ever before to avoid her notice. For this, she was glad. To see the twisted form or ugly face of the thing that had put her here, to be reminded of his lies and how he had been willing to let her be attacked by the priest - it was something Esmeralda wasn’t sure she could take. And whether the hunchback intuited how despised his appearance would be now, or whether he was too cowardly to face her, Esmeralda was thankful for his absence along with his continued efforts to ensure that she and Djali were at least fed something. 

As she broke her fast with a few bites from the portion of bread the bellringer had given, Esmeralda smiled. “How is the hay?” she asked Djali. The goat didn’t look up from the fresh pile of hay she had buried her face in. “That good, then.” 

However difficult life in the cathedral was for Esmeralda, she knew that it was even harder for Djali. There was nothing to graze or forage. Hay and scraps of Esmeralda’s meals were barely enough. Whenever she brushed or stroked the goat, Esmeralda could feel the cost of their sanctuary. Djali had grown thin, and her coat was now dull. Esmeralda was glad she couldn’t easily see the toll the weeks of imprisonment and seclusion had taken on herself. Filling Djali’s water bowl, she deliberately avoided glancing at her own reflection. 

Just as she had begun to rise, two arms encircled her. Esmeralda screamed as she was lifted upwards. She didn’t hear the shatter of the earthenware against the stones, but she felt the splash of water over her bare feet. 

A hand covered her mouth, and the grasping arms tightened around her, pressing her back against him. “Please,” whispered the priest. His breath was hot against her neck. 

Esmeralda shook, seeking the slight give that would break the vise. But, the more she struggled in his arms, fighting against his hold, the faster his breathing became. Through her dress, she could feel against the small of her back the heat of his sinister purpose. With every move she made, she felt it growing stronger. He gave out a moan, muting it with her bare shoulder.

Against every instinct, Esmeralda froze. Thrashing about in the priest’s cruel embrace served only him. Her heart pounded, drowning out the increasingly urgent sounds escaping from him. Undaunted by her sudden stillness, he began to grind himself against her. 

She saw no other means of escape. She grasped the flesh of his palm between her teeth and clenched her jaw tightly. She didn’t release his skin until she tasted metal.

He yelped and pulled away. 

Esmeralda spun and spat in the priest’s alarmed face. She could see flecks of blood in the glinting spittle. 

The priest muttered something in a language Esmeralda did not know, glancing from his bloody palm to her. 

She sucked up her remaining saliva, ready to spit again, but furiously the priest covered her mouth with his lips. He wrapped himself around her once more, one hand roving down her chest. 

“Take all you will,” he panted as he broke from the kiss. “My blood, my body.” His hand cupped her breast. “After my soul, what does anything else matter?” He took his hand away, and Esmeralda saw with horror the red smears over her left breast. “I give you everything.”

“Give me peace,” she parried. “Stay away from me.”

“You don’t understand how much these past few days have pained me. Not merely bodily. How hard it was to stay away, but I-”

“Leave me be or I will crack your head again.” She knew exactly where she had left the rock, she knew it would only take a few steps around the priest before she would have it in her grasp. In the daylight, she could see the yellow and green around the crusted wound. She would strike there with all her force. She would hit it again and again until she was sure that he would never touch her again. It was the only way she would ever be free of him again. 

The priest sighed. “Do it, and I promise that you will beg for the quickness of the noose.” 

It wasn’t a threat. Sincerity stared piercingly back at her as she searched his face for a sign of doubt. The fierceness of his certainty sent a shiver down Esmeralda’s spine. The terrifying devices in the prison seemed to pass before her, each more horrible than the next. The damp cold of the underground cell chilled her despite the summer heat. Desperately focusing on the block of sunlight that stretched across the cell, Esmeralda swallowed back the rising sick. 

If she did kill him or wound him fatally, they would know who to blame. Even if she were somehow to muster the strength to throw his body down from the tower, it would only be a matter of time before everyone came for her. Escape would be nearly impossible. Quasimodo certainly couldn’t be counted on to help. He had chosen the priest over her before, and Esmeralda was no longer able to hope that he would protect her ever again. 

“So hit me,” the priest continued. “Spit at me, strike me. Do what you will. I care not. It’s nothing compared to all that I have suffered these long months.” Trembling he kissed her temple, a mirror to the blow she had given him. “And everything pales to what I know awaits me.” He gave a long sigh. “But the cruelty of man is vast, and should they find my body, you will very quickly see the depths of manufactured Hell.” He kissed her once again before pulling away to add, “Have mercy. Let us have a shred of kindness together.” He began to push, steering her towards the bed, his hand wrapped around her wrist.

Even if she couldn’t end him and forever stop his pursuit, Esmeralda was not ready to submit. Even if all that she had cherished and all her dreams had been stolen from her, she would not surrender. She had been raised to be stronger than that. With all the courage left in her body, she said, “Never.” 

A jarring yank sent Esmeralda tumbling to the floor. She reached out a hand to stop her fall and landed hard upon the mattress. The priest was already on his knees above her, pinning her down by the time she found air enough to say, “I hate you.”

Between bruising kisses, the priest managed, “I love you.” Still pelting her face and neck with his lips, he began to draw her skirt up to her waist. 

As his hand wandered down to explore her exposed skin, shame burned red and hot across her face. His fingertips might as well have been claws, ripping her flesh as they ran across her abdomen and over her thighs. His breath now heaved his chest, and his eyes flickered up and down, as if trying to consume every part of her he had stripped bare. 

Clumsily, Esmeralda reached down to try to cover herself, but he batted her hands away. “Please don’t,” she whispered. Despite his weight on her legs, she tried to buck and kick. Her fists struck his chest and face as he leaned over to kiss her once more. She could feel his shuddering moan in her mouth. She screwed her eyes shut, her last defense. 

She nearly jumped as the fabric of his cassock was lifted away, brought up to his hips. His naked thighs parted her legs, and he let the skirt drape back down to cover them together. 

He was prodding her. An awkward jab at the top of her inner leg. A misaimed thrust that landed him against her belly. It was hot and swollen. He seared as he rammed inside her, and her breath escaped in agonized cry. Like the cleaving thwack of an axe against wood, his splitting suddenness roughly cut into her.

Despite the pain, Esmeralda tried not to let her breathing quicken in panic, least he think that the hitch in her breath and frantic gasps were caused by his next thrust forward. He was going too deep. She was sure he would rip out on the other side, still plunging on into stone, oblivious as he quivered on top of her. 

As he slid out, Esmeralda heard him moan deeply. Her body was screaming. Perhaps she was as well. His next attack robbed her of any sense but pain. He was shaking against her, groaning and muttering. Only one word she was able to discern - 

“Esmeralda.”

He seemed to twitch and jerk as he pulled back before jaggedly returning, uttering a raw cry. His muscles tensed as he held himself fast against her. Finally, his breath slowed, and his body relaxed. She could feel the sweat on his face as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, collapsing on top of her.

“Are you going to cry this time?” she snapped, pushing him off. 

“What?” It stung as the priest slipped out, trailing a sticky wetness in its wake. Slowly, he rolled onto his side and began to dab at the milky drops with the hem of her skirt.

Esmeralda’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and she tugged her dress out of his languid grasp. “Are you,” she said, punctuating every word, “going to cry?” She sat upright and smoothed her clothing out. 

Sleepily the priest blinked. “That was a one time thing.” He took the blanket in hand and started to dry himself. 

Esmeralda could only stare. After everything he had inflicted on her and how he had deprived her of her modesty, she felt no inclination to afford him any privacy. Soft and much reduced, it was hard to accept that it was the same instrument that had provided so much torture. But, she knew little of such matters. Compelled to know what Phoebus had under his hose, she had spied one or twice on her husband during their weeks together. Other than Pierre, she had seen no other man’s nakedness before. This, however, wasn’t entirely trivial, but it was still an ugly worm. 

More interesting to her, however, were the dark curls nestled there. No shock of white or trace of grey - so unlike what remained on his head. An old man, she had thought, would be just as grey on bottom as he was on top, just as it was for the aging women she had seen bathing. He couldn’t be, she realized, nearly as old as a quick glance suggested. 

It was then that she realized with alarm that the worm had grown. Not quite a serpent, but enough to menace. She swallowed and glanced over to the priest’s face, meeting his gaze. He had been watching her as she stared at him. “You’re despicable,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “Deplorable.” She got to her feet and scanned the cell. Djali was nowhere to be seen. Wherever the goat had wandered off to, Esmeralda was sure it was safer than here. 

Still smirking, Claude leaned against the wall. She had found him fascinating. How else could such intense regard be explained? His eyes followed her as she crossed the cell. As she bent down before the shattered jug, he sucked in his breath, already imagining taking her once more.

One by one, she picked up the pieces of clay, only a sliver of her profile visible to him. A broken jug. “How could I forget!” he exclaimed as the specifics of Pierre’s marriage in the Court of Miracles returned to him. The poet had been married to Esmeralda through means of a broken crock. His face flushed as the significance seized him.

Startled, the girl turned to gape at him. 

“How many pieces?” Claude asked breathlessly. She had dropped the jug when he had embraced her, and then he had had her. Hardly sanctified, it wasn’t proper, but if canon law could accept a clandestine marriage as valid, then - Claude could feel the weight of at least one sin leave. However many other sins this gypsy marriage created to join his innumerable crimes, for the first time that he had taken the key to the red door, Claude felt his conscience was clear. 

“What?”

Exasperatedly, “How many pieces?” Claude repeated. “The jug.” He gestured to the floor. “How many?”

Bemused, the girl shook her head, but still she cast a glance around, mouth wordlessly moving as she counted. “At least twenty,” she said flatly and returned to gathering the remains. 

“We’ll be married at least twenty years then,” concluded Claude. 

“That’s-” stammered the girl. “How?” 

Unperturbed by the feigned confusion, Claude waved his hand dismissively. He could understand why she would take every advantage she could, counting on his ignorance of the customs of her people. “No need to lie,” he said. “I know that’s how you Gypsies get married. A broken jug that states how long you will be married. We have broken a jug, so we are husband and wife for at least twenty years.” 

A strange expression crossed her scowling face before she let out a laugh. Bright. Pure. She was laughing at him! Indignant, Claude began to rise.  
Finally, she managed, “You’re mistaken, Father.” She shook her head, the smile fading from her as she turned to him. 

“And why is that?” he snarled, her momentary mirth still ringing in his ears.

“To be married requires agreement - between families, between husband and wife. Without it there is nothing.” Fire flashed behind her dark eyes. “I am not your wife. I will never be yours.”

“Then why the jug!” spluttered Claude. 

Esmeralda shrugged. “There are many people who come to the Court of Miracles. More than just mine. I don’t know why a marriage is announced with breaking something here, but it’s nothing more than a…” 

“Symbol,” Claude provided with a sigh. He should have known that his former student couldn’t be trusted to accurately recount or explain all that he had seen. Ever since he had met the aspiring poet, Pierre had been more partial to invention than recitation. Claude pressed his fingers between his brows. 

It had been pointless to hope for something that could ameliorate his perdition. As long as he was still a priest, it was a violation of all that he had vowed. Moreover, she was a heathen. Their union could never be holy. 

Drained of the frenzied relief, Claude sighed. 

There was no redemption for this transgression. And now he was even more damned than he had been before. He had stained his soul once again with such vile licentiousness, and despite the punishment he would suffer, he still had every intention of repeating his sin. Contrition was impossible while she still lived. Perhaps even now that he had experienced the exquisiteness of carnal knowledge, his whole existence was doomed to be consumed by this need. What had driven him to mastery of so many passions, Claude could now see, was what Fate had designed to condemn him. 

Clattering clay pieces dropped upon his lap, pulling him out of his reverie. He looked up at her scornful expression. 

“Count them if you wish, Father,” Esmeralda said. 

The title following such sacrilegious thoughts brought clenching unease to the priest. “Claude.” He took her hands in his, holding fast even though she made no attempt to slip away. How foolish he felt realizing that never once in any of their prior encounters had he offered his name. There had always been so many other matters to attend to that it had simply been determined unnecessary, unimportant. “My name is Dom Claude Frollo.” 

Dark eyes bore into his. 

“Claude,” he repeated, wishing to hear her finally add words to her siren’s call. A thrill passed through him as he imagined just how sweet it would sound to have her cry out his name as he was inside her.

He would do it. He would make her say it. His body begged to have her again. It would not wait. 

It took very little effort to bring her to her knees, on the bed once more. Claude brushed away the fragments of the jug. Though already aching with desire, he gave himself a long stroke. Unlike the paltry pulls he had resorted to during the past few days while his head pounded and stomach spun after slight exertion, there was the promise of wrapping himself around Esmeralda and entering her warmth.

As he kissed her, he felt words spoken against his lips. “What?” he gasped.

“What does it mean?” Her tone cut with annoyance. 

Claude gulped for air, wishing she would just make sense for once.

“Your name.” 

He squinted at her. “Of all the things… what…” _Claudius cum claudio._ He could feel his face flush as he imagined actually saying the word ‘lame’ to the girl. “Never you mind.” She no doubt had a devious purpose. Hadn’t the goat learned to spell that captain’s name?

“I will only ever love the man who is named for-”

“Will you never cease this madness!” Claude let go of her. “Why do you torture us with talk of that captain?” 

“He is-”

“A drunk who seduces and whores and has no doubt already found someone else to ruin,” Claude interjected. “He will never be worth your devotion, and the more you insist on saying his name, the more you debase yourself.” He got to his feet. “You do not see him for what he is. You see only fancy trappings-” as he spoke, he began to pace, “- a shiny sword you would kiss, someone who thinks he’s Adonis. And he doesn’t even see you unless you’re willing to offer him what I have fought so hard for.” 

Though he wanted to stop and hold her so she would no longer wince and flinch from his words, he couldn’t contain himself. He could think of no other way to make her understand than to scold and lecture. 

“If he feels anything for you,” Claude continued, “it’s hate and fear. You tried to kill him, and it drove him away-”

“You tried to kill him!” snapped Esmeralda.

“He doesn’t know that! He thinks you stabbed him, and what has he done? He’s stayed away, far away. He didn’t go to your trial. He was ready to watch as you died accused of killing him. He’s a coward, and he does not want you. But me,” he put his hands over his heart, feeling it thunder underneath his ribs, “I have come back. You tried to kill me, and still would, yet here I am!”

“I would,” she hissed, “but we’ve established why I can’t.”

“Surely you can see that I love you. I love you in a way he never could, and I would-”

“If you love me so much, prove it by throwing yourself off the tower.”

Wrath boiling over, Claude scrambled to find a proper response, but before he could fashion one together, he felt something ramming into his side. Though it did not bring him to his knees, the blunt force left him gasping. “What the-” he muttered as he looked down to see the furious goat, head lowered, poised to strike again. “Devilish beast!” He took a step forward, but already the girl was wrapping her arms around the goat, murmuring praise and kissing her. 

Esmeralda held the goat to her chest, a demonic shield with yellow eyes that seemed to gnash its teeth, daring Claude to approach once more. Did he see Hellfire flickering there? There was undoubtedly something infernal that had summoned the creature to the cell and prompted it to attack. 

Shuddering, he backed away until he was at the door. “Perhaps I’ll throw that thing from the tower instead.” Claude could feel the scorching hate follow him all the way down to the cloister. 

He slammed his chamber door and hurried to the window, already trying to soothe the dissatisfied agony between his legs. Supporting himself with his forearm against the wall, Claude frantically moved his fist, cursing that he had to fall back to this. Pathetic. Lame. His arm was tiring from pumping and still she hid out of sight, as if she knew how much suffering she was inflicting still.

Biting his arm, he silenced his moans as the hot flood of relief spilled over his hand. He rested his head against the stone wall. “Esmeralda,” he whispered. He let his cassock fall back over his legs and sought his washcloth. He had only managed to wipe the remnants of his seed off of his hand when a knock intruded on his silence.

“Monsieur Archdeacon?” It was the nervous voice of the beadle.

If he stayed silent, perhaps he would be left alone again. 

“You should know, but… word reached the Bishop that you are well again-”

Claude clenched his teeth. 

“- and he’s on his way here.”

Resisting the urge to shout about damning the Bishop, Claude opened the door. “Thank you for the notice, Charles,” he said, his face a mask of placid duty. “I will be sure to greet him when he arrives.” Not waiting for the beadle to respond, Claude brushed past him, already weary with the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! You made it to the end of this chapter! I hope that you enjoyed it.
> 
> A note on the marriage ceremony described in NDDP: I’ve interpreted the jug breaking in the book as being something that’s a result of so many cultures being in the Court of Miracles that the Jewish tradition of breaking a glass to celebrate a marriage wound up as just a part of how things are done in the Court of Miracles. Since actual Romani marriages are pretty diverse in tradition, I can’t say for sure that no jugs were ever broken, but to my knowledge, it’s not done. Of the Romani marriage traditions I know - from jumping over a broom, to the bride changing dresses as she’s accepted into the groom’s family, to giving jewelry, or just plain old having a regular Church service - I have heard nothing that resembles what Hugo wrote. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think, and show your support with kudos and comments. It really means a lot, and after the epic journey that this chapter went through on the "writing" side to get this posted, I am looking forward to hearing what you think!
> 
> Thank you,  
> Penultimatepenguin


	5. The Archdeacon and The Prisoner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin, please be aware that there are period appropriate Western European Christian attitudes expressed in this chapter, and I include them and the use of a slur for the sake of trying to be as accurate as possible to the time period the work is set in and the original work itself. Please don't hate me for writing characters who are very much of their time, since I'm just trying to write a work of historical (fan) fiction.

The cloister garden was still cloaked in shadows, though to Claude it seemed he had spent hours pacing underneath the arches. Arms folded across his chest, he trained his eyes on the ground, silently cursing how weak he had become each time he found himself looking up, fruitlessly seeking Esmeralda.

The groan of the red door swinging open provided the necessary distraction to cease his constant upward glances. “Your Excellency,” he said, approaching the Bishop of Paris. Mechanically, he genuflected before his suzerain, taking his hand and kissing the ring upon it. As he looked up, he saw the Bishop’s stunned expression staring back at him. “Thank you for your-”

“What have you suffered, my son?”

Rising back, Claude regarded the stern concern of the man before him. In the ten years since Louis de Beaumont had been named Bishop of Paris by the King, Claude had rarely seen such alarm in his former classmate’s face. It unsettled the priest to see how wide the Bishop’s eyes had grown. “I have been ill, as you know,” offered Claude. 

“Not that.” The Bishop reached out and placed his fingertips to Claude’s temple. Despite the gentleness, Claude flinched, pulling away from the touch. “This is a recent wound.”

Too late, Claude recalled his brother’s advice. He had neglected to consider any possible explanation for his alarming injury. The silence lingered for too long before Claude finally managed, “I had risen from bed, and the world went dark. Next thing I know, I am on the ground. I do not know for sure what I struck my head on, but I believe it was -”

“You swooned?” The incredulity and amusement quirked the corner of his lip, and for a moment, Claude was reminded of the reed-thin young man he had known at University.

“I have been ill,” Claude repeated, hoping that the firmness of his insistence would be enough to lay the matter to rest. The intensity of the Bishop’s evaluation made Claude shiver as shame weakened his resolve. Did his sin show upon his face, discernable to all around him? 

Finally, the Bishop sighed. “And caused quite a lot of trouble as a consequence.” 

“I apologize, Father,” said Claude. 

“But now that you are restored to health, I trust that I need not concern myself with petty wayward priests.” Louis de Beaumont placed a hand on Claude’s shoulder. “It is your job to take care of them. Keep them in line.”

Claude tried to mask the relief that the change in topic brought with his usual stony expression. “Was there a spate of debauchery in my absence?” he asked, frowning severely. 

“Oh not exactly,” the Bishop said, beginning to walk. “Just you know how tedious I find it to handle such trivial matters… a priest in a tavern, a curate gambling… all crimes that have made me quite glad I have good men like you.”

A leaden weight seemed to have settled in Claude’s stomach. “The _oculus episcopi_ must be beyond reproach.” His mouth was dry. 

“You say it well, Dom Claude. The Archdeacon is the Bishop’s eye, and you have left me nearly as blind as your bellringer for these past weeks.” He stopped and turned to face the priest. “I am not sure if you are aware what trouble your bellringer has caused.”

The image of Quasimodo cowering and holding out the dagger flashed before Claude’s eyes, before he remembered what the Bishop had to be referring to. “I have been told,” he murmured. 

“I am surprised you haven’t objected.”

“Object?”

“To her presence here.” 

His heart pounded against his chest. “The Gypsy’s? Why would I?” A curious edge now sharpened his words. “She has sanctuary here, and I am not-” He cut himself off and shook his head. “It is not within my power to deprive her of sanctuary.”

“I am glad to hear that.” 

Claude finally dared to meet the Bishop’s solemn gaze. “Why glad?” he stammered. “Is it not my job to protect the sanctity of this cathedral?” 

With a shrug, the Bishop said, “Given the lengths you went to oppose Dame de Beaujeu’s visit to the cloister, I would have expected you would have found some ordinance or edict to support her removal.”

Heat flashed across Claude’s cheeks. “She is living in the cathedral. Two locked doors stand between her and the cloister,” he managed. “She cannot corrupt the minds of the priests from the tower. Their chastity is not in jeopardy-”

“Not to mention you were quite insistent about wanting that edict to ban her kind from dancing on the Parvis,” interjected the Bishop. “You cannot fault me for assuming that her presence here would cause you to ransack your books for some justification to remove an unbaptized gypsy witch from our protection, from Our Lady’s protection.” As he spoke, he moved his hands slowly, deliberately, as if giving a sermon. 

Swallowing did little to keep Claude’s frenzied panic at bay, but it was all that he could do for now. 

“She might not have chosen sanctuary, but she remains here. To save her life, perhaps her soul,” the Bishop continued. “She isn’t beyond redemption, Dom Claude.”

“If you are suggesting,” Claude began, voice trembling, “that I…” The words evaporated as he tried to speak, leaving him straining to make a sound. 

Chuckling, Louis de Beaumont said, “I’m not the one who hit his head.” He smiled briefly, before resuming a more serious demeanor. “No, that is the last thing I would ask _you_ to do personally. I would not want anyone but a Sister or another Godly woman to take on that task, even without knowing the nature of her crimes.” 

Claude slowly let out his breath, feeling some of the tension in his shoulder leave along with the air. “A conversion would help her case… a repetent witch, newly baptized,” he mused, stroking his chin. “A pardon…” Then she would be free to leave, free to vanish into the ephemera. He would be free of her, and yet Claude felt dizzy with how the very idea revolted him. After knowing all the bliss she brought him, after accepting his own damnation, he could not afford to lose her now. 

A quizzical expression had grown across the Bishop’s face. “Her immortal soul concerns us more than the judgement of an earthly court. You know as well as I that Parliament will not violate her asylum as long as I oppose them. With your willingness to let her keep refuge here and my support, she is quite safe within the confines of Notre Dame.” He gestured towards the towers. “But what good is her sanctuary if she hasn’t truly been saved?”

Mutely, Claude nodded, knowing that he was mere syllables away from saying something that would earn the Bishop’s scrutiny. 

“Now, Dom Claude, though this tangent has been quite enlightening, I must confess that I did not come here to discuss the prisoner.”

“Of course not,” he mumbled, his lips barely moving.

“In your illness, you have neglected your many obligations, and I am here to not only ascertain for myself that you are indeed better, and remind you not to neglect your role much longer,” said the Bishop, all tenderness and joviality washed away with his pressing tone. “I can see that despite looking much changed, you are not so infirm that you cannot act as my archdeacon. I appointed you for a reason. As long as I have known you, you have impressed me with your diligence and dedication. I expect nothing less from you, and that is what your two deaneries expect from you. And your country curacies - have you visited this year? Of the one hundred seventy four, have you managed any?”

Evading the blatant accusation, Claude stated, “The country curacies do not each expect a visit every year.”

“If a shepard never looks upon his flock, a wolf will come. Dom Claude, do remember your duty,” the Bishop warned. “As I must remember mine. Farewell, my son.” With a hurried blessing and the rustling of his simar, the Bishop left as suddenly as he had arrived.

The pounding of Claude’s heart had been replaced with a pounding in his head by the time he found the old Beadle. Quickly, curtly Claude gave his instructions.

***

A shadow passed across the threshold of her cell. Esmeralda froze. Her heart beat in her throat as she squinted into the afternoon sun to see the man before her. Blinded more by fear that the priest had returned than the sun, Esmeralda did not immediately register the obvious differences between the men. Where one only seemed old, this man had more than grey hair and a furrowed brow. Drawing nearer, she could see splotches of brown across his sagging face. The stranger was old enough to be the priest’s father.

“Apologies if I startled you.” The man cast his eyes downward as he spoke. 

She let Djali step between her and the man. “Who are you?”

With a quick nod, the man said, “Beadle Charles Biset. I work in the Cathedral. The Archdeacon instructed me to bring some provisions to you.” He gestured to the basket she had previously barely noted. 

The basket he set on the threshold of her cell was at least double the size of Quasimodo’s. He carefully placed a fresh water jug beside it. Esmeralda swallowed. Only the priest would have known that she was in need of a new water jug, so surely it had come from him. She instinctively knew not to touch the thing, but the stranger’s words confused her and belayed her refusal. “The… sorry?”

“Archdeacon.” The Beadle remained decidedly outside of the cell, still pointedly avoiding her gaze. “He was very displeased to learn that you were relying on the Hunchback for your daily needs.”

Esmeralda knelt before the basket and gingerly picked at the corner of the white cloth covering the basket. As she lifted it away, her eyebrows rose. Untouched bread and some cheese. Red summer berries. A bowl with some sort of porridge that was still warm to the touch. The portions were much larger than anything Quasimodo had been able to forage. Her mouth watered despite her immense distrust of anything a stranger would bring, especially if the priest had anything to do with it. 

“Nothing for Djali,” she murmured. She stroked the goat.

“Who? Oh, the goat.” The Beadle clasped his hands together. “I don’t believe the Archdeacon was aware of your… companion. He would have otherwise made sure to provide.”

She exhaled at his words. The priest had played no part in this. “What is an Archdeacon?” 

“It would take too long to explain, but I suppose you could say he’s the man responsible for the behavior of all the priests in his region. He makes sure their churches are well kept. He deals with matters too small for the Bishop to bother with. He punishes wayward priests.” 

Esmeralda’s back straightened. “Punish? What for?” Would the Archdeacon care that her sanctuary in the Cathedral had been violated by one of his priests? 

Amusement crept onto the Beadle’s face, overwhelming the stoicism Esmeralda had learned to expect from men of the Church. “I’m surprised a Gypsy would care about such matters.”

It was dangerous to show interest, Esmeralda reminded herself. She took a berry from the basket and popped it into her mouth. The burst of sweetness was familiar - on her way to Paris the year before, she had plucked these berries from bushes that lined fields and roads. How happy she had been then. “I have been here for weeks with only the bellringer for company,” she said. “To me, anything is welcome.” Except the priest.

The Beadle gave a hum, as if declaring her explanation satisfactory. Briefly, he met her gaze before determinedly looking back at the stone floor. “Should a priest or cleric do something to violate their vows or the laws of our Church, they will have to face the Archdeacon’s judgement in our court. The Archdeacon decides how to handle the matter. Some archdeacons are lenient, but the Archdeacon of Josas… he is quite severe. He has little tolerance for a priest who causes scandal.”

Her stomach tightened at the word. That was what the priest had said - to denounce him would add scandal to her execution. There had been so much scandal already attached to her, that it doubtless would have mattered what else was tacked onto her reputation. But for the priest, such a scandal would have brought him before the Archdeacon. 

She pushed away the bitter twinges of regret. Nothing could be done now about what had transpired weeks ago. She could, however, do something with the knowledge she had now. 

“Will I ever meet the Archdeacon?” she asked.

The old man scoffed and shook his head. “Unlikely. He takes his vows so seriously that he refused to appear when the daughter of the king visited the cloister last year. I doubt he would risk polluting his mind for someone like you.” 

Crestfallen, Esmeralda turned her face away. She stroked Djali and asked, “And why now? I have been here for some time.” She offered Djali a berry.

“The Archdeacon has been gravely ill. For quite some time he has seen no one, spoken to no one, barely had anything to eat or drink - the trays I brought him often were entirely untouched. There were times we thought he had died, for he didn’t even answer when his brother visited. He raised his brother like a son, and we all thought…” The Beadle cleared his throat, and Esmeralda dared to glance over her shoulder to the man. “Fortunately, he was noticed at his window, so at least we were assured he lived. Only recently did he emerge, and I suppose that today was the first day he was told that you were seeking sanctuary here.”

After so many weeks spent alone in the Cathedral and weeks in the dungeon, Esmeralda could imagine just how miserable the Archdeacon must have felt. She at least had her health. “Can you tell him I am grateful for this basket, and that I wish him good health?” she finally asked.

“I can.” The Beadle turned and was soon beyond Esmeralda’s view. 

The silence that returned did not seem quiet as oppressive as before. She wrapped her hands around the bowl of porridge. She tried to remember the last thing she had eaten that had been fresh enough to warm her as she swallowed. 

Contentment eased her. Though the meal otherwise would have seemed unpleasant, lumpy, and flavorless, to the prisoner of Notre Dame, she had never had a finer meal. The hunger she had long denied quickly emptied the bowl, and Esmeralda sat upon the floor of her cell, drying her cheeks. 

“Can you believe it, Djali?” she said, half-laughing. “I’m crying over mush.” She offered the bowl for Djali to lick what little remained clean. Eagerly the goat took her share. “Laughing because of gruel.” Despite the Archdeacon’s oversight of her, Djali seemed quite delighted by the much improved fare. 

She sighed deeply as the warmth of her meal began to fade. “You know what this means, Djali,” she said. She leaned in closer to the goat’s ear, as if the stones could hear her whisper. “We have to find a way to the Archdeacon. If anyone can do anything about…” Claude “... that priest, it would be him.” The mere thought of the name he had said while he lay exposed and half-aroused on her bed was enough to make her worry her humble meal would come back up. She would never let that cursed name pass her lips. “Somehow,” she murmured, resting her head against Djali’s neck. “Somehow we’ll find a way to talk to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers, thank you so much for making it to the end of this chapter, which is a little bit different from all the ones that came before. Originally, I had not intended to write out the scene that accounts for the first half of this chapter, but after a friend pointed out that it was not only needed but _wanted_ I had no choice but to include the Bishop of Paris. 
> 
> Just like many other characters in Notre Dame de Paris, Hugo decided to use the real Bishop of Paris at this time: Louis de Beaumont was a real person, and he was actually born around the same time that Claude the character would have been born. But, as Hugo ages up Pierre and Claude Frolo (yes, real person, yes spelled with one L, no not an archdeacon or even a priest) who were children and teenagers in 1482, but are much older in the novel, I decided to age up Louis just a little bit since I couldn't stop cracking up writing one 36-year-old call another 36-year-old "my son" and that really slowed writing down. 
> 
> This chapter also required actually learning what the hell is an archdeacon and wtf they do, so I would like to shout out a source that I used that proved quiet.... illuminating. A big thank you goes to Dr. Tiffany D. Vann Sprecher's dissertation "Priest as Criminal: Community Regulation of Priests in the Archdeaconry of Paris, 1483-1505". It is a very detailed, very amusing account of all the shenanigans that took place that Claude would have had to deal with if he had lived past 1482. I doubt Dr. Tiffany will ever find this fic, but if she does, I want her to know that she's awesome. 
> 
> "Okay, enough boring commentary" is what you're probably saying right now. So, I'll close with my usual gratitude that you have read this chapter. If you enjoyed it, don't hesitate to leave a Kudos or Comment. Comments really are the best thing ever, and they make me smile so much.
> 
> Thank you,  
> Penultimatepenguin


	6. Both Brothers Surprise Each Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some Latin shenanigans that will be explained at the end, but it helps to know that the quote should be: _et dixit Abba Pater omnia possibilia tibi sunt transfer calicem hunc a me_ (Mark 14:36). 
> 
> As usual, I apologize for the historical use of certain terms to describe Romani people in character's dialogue or thoughts. I know it is expected to occur in any NDDP/HOND derivative work, but I dislike it immensely.

The sight of his brother’s closed door had knotted his stomach with worry. With grave determination, Jehan had knocked at the door, earnestly calling for Claude to let him in. It had taken the calm reassurances of two passing priests that the Archdeacon was attending to matters in the cathedral for Jehan to cease pleading with an empty cell. Leaning against the wooden door, Jehan let out a long sigh. 

For a moment, Jehan considered the possibility of searching for his brother, only to dismiss the thought immediately. The likelihood was high that interrupting Claude’s work would be met with as much annoyance as Jehan felt about waiting, which would only further decrease the chances of walking away with a fat and happy purse. No, it was better to wait here rather than wait wherever the Archdeacon was, boredly listening to discussions about things Jehan knew would make him yawn. If he had wanted to take a nap, he would have gone to the lecture at the University. No, he would suffer boredom at his brother’s door, as at least there was the promise of walking out of the cloister with enough money to pay Isabeau a proper visit. 

The tedious stillness of the cloister made Jehan twitch. How could so many live here, but it remained so quiet? He wanted to whistle or hum. He wanted to run up and down the long corridor. Instead, he occupied himself with searching his pockets for anything that could provide the slightest distraction from the drudgery of waiting.

As he pulled a blackened stub of charcoal out from his pocket, Jehan began to consider what image would most amuse the occupants of the cloister. While several obscene and profane pictures came to mind, Jehan was sure that Claude would be too horrified by any illustration of his brother’s plans for the evening that he would refuse to hear a word Jehan said. Even jousting phalli was probably too lurid for his brother’s sensibilities, not that Jehan hadn’t seen such drawings illuminating books in his brother’s possession. “He probably covers them with his hand as he reads,” Jehan had laughed after he had described to Robin the irrelevant copulating demons some monk had chosen to grace the page of the book Jehan had been forced to occupy himself with while his brother one time spoke at length to a beadle about candles. Jehan had entirely forgotten what the book was about in the three years since, but several of the illustrations Jehan was sure he could draw from memory. 

Setting charcoal to the stone wall, Jehan began to trace the outline of what he knew would make the whole cloister snicker. He smirked as he worked, enlarging and exaggerating with bold strokes, while adding graceful details with careful finesse. By the time he heard his brother’s footsteps, Jehan was quite proud of the scowling profile that rivaled the real one glowering at him and his work. The similarities were unmistakable, even if the much emphasized nose that had become grotesticly enhanced in Jehan’s drawing. 

Arms folded across his chest, the Archdeacon stared at his likeness on the wall, his frown deepening the familiar creases of his forehead. 

“If you stay just like that,” said Jehan brightly, “I can finish your portrait properly!” 

Claude’s eyes flicked to meet his brother’s before returning to glower at the caracicture. 

“I forgot your bruise!” Jehan exclaimed, examining the wound. Though the edges of the bruise had begun to yellow, it was still dark enough around the poorly formed scab for Jehan to know it would take a very long time to completely vanish. 

“I want it gone before you leave,” Claude finally said.

“Well, you know better than I, dear brother that it takes time for such things to heal, and-”

“The picture.”

Jehan thought to his brother’s private tower chamber and all the deep etching on the wall his brother had made, but before he could think of a clever way to tease Claude, his brother had already unlocked the door and stepped inside. 

“Come in, Jehan.”

Joining his brother in his cell, Jehan looked around. “Smells a lot better. Not quite so… emetic.” The air was fresher, no longer cramped and stagnant. 

Claude wordlessly took a seat at his desk, not even casting a glance in Jehan’s direction. 

“Brother, I am very glad to see you well,” said Jehan, perhaps too enthusiastically, earning a scoff from Claude. “Truly, I am. I have been so preoccupied these past few days, I have barely eaten a thing, which is just as well, as these past weeks, I have been lucky to have a single-”

“I really do not have any desire to hear it, Jehan,” interrupted Claude, finally turning to fix his brother with a weary expression. “There are many more pressing tasks that I have to attend to that verboise story you have concocted to extract money from me. Whatever it is, my answer will be the same. _Qui non laborat, non manducet._ You do not work. You do not even study!”

Jehan folded his arms, a half dozen retorts and threats bubbling up from his chest, but they died as soon as he heard a cough from the doorway. The boy turned to see the wizened face of Beadle Biset. 

“Archdeacon,” the old man said, undaunted by the glares both brothers set upon him, “are you aware that there is a rather large image of you-”

“Yes,” Claude said tersely. 

“Did you like it?” piped Jehan, a grin blooming on his face. His work was already being noticed.

The Beadle ignored the younger Frollo and continued to speak directly to Claude. “Shall I have someone remove it?”

“As the culprit is in need of penitence,” Claude’s eyes flashed as he glanced at his brother, “all he will require is a bucket and cloth.”

With an exaggerated groan, Jehan dropped down upon the foot of his brother’s bed. No money, a coming lecture, and a punishment. It was almost enough to make the scholar regret finding the charcoal in the first place. 

Nodding the Beadle said, “I will make sure it’s brought.” He paused, and Jehan immediately dreaded whatever mundane discussion about the cathedral or the cloister he was about to unwillingly be forced to overhear. “I did what you asked.”

A ripple seemed to pass through Claude’s body. Immediately, his whole demeanor changed - the irritation melted from his face, leaving him wide eyed and eager. His back straightened up, and he leaned forward, as if begging the Beadle to continue. “And?” he breathed. 

“There’s a goat.”

As quick as lightning, the Archdeacon’s face snapped back into the stern grimace of before. 

“You must not have been told, but her goat escaped and followed her to the tower.”

Claude sharply sucked in his breath.

“I must ask, monsenguir, what do goats eat?”

Silence filled the cell.

“Grass,” Jehan said, drawing the stupefied stare of his brother and appreciative glance of the Beadle. “They eat grass and straw and stuff, but they can eat pretty much anything. But they like grass and straw and weeds. Hay in the winter.” The weight of his brother’s disapproval and the Beadle’s surprise pressed him forward, babbling on, “They had a few at the mill. And a donkey. And-”

“Enough, Jehan,” sighed Claude rubbing his brow. “If you must, Beadle, provide for the goat. I would rather see the beast hanged, as it is her familiar.”

The word jolted Jehan’s mind, understanding finally dawning upon him. La Esmeralda had always gone around with a goat, and somehow her goat had followed her into sanctuary in the towers. The image of a goat struggling with the stairs as it ran after its mistress was enough to earn a snort from Jehan. Though both men glanced at him, Jehan offered no apology for his interruption. 

“Another thing,” continued the Beadle. “She wanted me to tell you that she is grateful for the basket.”

What escaped his brother’s lips was halfway between a strangled gasp and spluttering cough. Jehan frowned as he saw Claude’s pale cheeks begin to flush.

“And she expressed concern over your health.”

The Archdeacon floundered, mouth slightly agape. “What?” he finally choked out. 

“I told her the basket was from you, the Archdeacon, and she wanted to know why you hadn’t sent her anything before,” explained Beadle Biset unflinchingly. “I told her you had been gravely ill and only recently recovered.”

“And what else?” The words were almost a hiss.

“She wanted to know what an archdeacon was, and I told her. She then asked if she would ever meet you, and I said that it was unlikely.”

Suddenly Claude got to his feet, causing the Beadle to take a step back. As Claude began to pace, he stroked his chin. “She must not realize,” he murmured. He reached the window and let out an exclamation. With great force, he turned away from the windows, eyes frantically searching the room. 

Jehan sought the Beadle’s gaze and gave the bewildered man a small shrug. 

“She does not understand that we have met! More than-”

“Oh yes, how could I forget, you were supposed to take her last confession before her execution,” remembered Beadle Biset.

Claude froze, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

“Should I tell her?”

“No!” The Archdeacon took several steps forward before halting. He shook his head. “No. Why remind her of such a painful day.” His words seemed exhausted, weary. Claude passed a hand over his brow, closing his eyes. “ _Dona nobis pacem_ ,” he whispered.

Jehan felt his jaw lower. Within him, there had been something locked, a comprehension that could explain the riddle he hadn’t realized he had been puzzling through these past months. His brother had given him the key unwittingly. 

La Esmeralda.

The nonsense that he had overheard his brother babbling in his chamber - Esmeralda. The weeks of distraction and distress before the trial of the witch - Esmeralda. The illness that had begun nearly concurrently with an execution - Esmeralda. His brother must not have known, must not have realized that she was alive until Jehan had spied her from his window, revealing what Quasimodo had done. No wonder his brother had been so stricken and alarmed! No wonder Jehan had seen his brother at the window transfixed, staring at the woman he had thought long dead. The woman he…

It barely seemed possible, but with all the evidence that lay before him, Jehan could see no other explanation. Somehow, his brother - despite his jealous piety and insufferable righteousness - cared for the gyspy girl, Esmeralda. More than care. Much more than that.

Laughter ripped through Jehan’s body. He doubled over, shaking with peals of laughter. Mirth echoed through the room. 

Trembling and gasping, minutes later Jehan still roared with the sheer absurdity of his epiphany. Dom Claude Frollo, Archdeacon of Josas, so stern and rigid had become infatuated. Jehan couldn’t control himself. Hiccuping and crying, Jehan could barely make out the alarm on his brother’s face or the dumbfounded Beadle.

Over the riotous giggles, Claude hissed, “Excuse us.” He pushed the Beadle out and slammed the door shut. 

The act only increased the volume of Jehan’s laughter. His sides ached, but to see everything fall so perfectly into place, to finally see what had lingered in the shadows - he had no choice but to revel in the moment. 

In several fast strides, Claude crossed the room to stand before Jehan with a clenched jaw, rage shining in his eyes. A stinging slap stole the laughter from Jehan’s lungs, and for some time he panted, still grinning despite the pain in his sides and the smarting of his cheek.

“What has gotten into you!” snapped Claude. “Laughing like a madman over nothing. Is this your new ploy, Jehan? I am not amused in the least. You are-”

“Esmeralda,” wheezed Jehan.

The blood drained from Claude’s face.

“It all makes sense now.” 

“You’re delirious,” protested Claude.

Jehan wiped the tears from his eyes and smirked at his elder brother. “You’ve fallen for her! So hard that you-” Jehan had to stifle more giggles. “You-” He couldn’t contain himself, and once again he was rolling with mirth. 

Tensely, Claude managed, “You do not know what you are talking about.”

“ _et dixit Abba Pater omnia possibilia tibi sunt transfer_ pipinnam _hunc a me_ -”

The second slap burned. Jehan could already feel his cheek pulsing. “Fine, _sopio_.” He straightened up, cautiously regarding the storming rage in his brother’s eyes. 

“You don’t understand.” His face was quivering, contorting. “You do not understand, Jehan.” His voice cracked. “You-” He shook as he pulled a small purse out from his robes and thrust it into Jehan’s hands. “Get out.” It was almost a sob. He was shoving his brother out the door.

Stumbling out into the corridor, Jehan watched Claude slam the door shut once more. The unmistakable sound of a lock echoed in the cloister’s arches. “It was just a joke!” Jehan shouted, kicking the door so it rattled. “Just a joke!” He punctuated each word with a kick. “You’re impossible.” 

He slipped the coin purse into his pocket and glanced down. The Beadle had indeed left a bucket and rag below the charcoal sketch. With a sigh, Jehan considered the options before him. As easy as it would be to flee past the punishment and make his way to a tavern or Isabeau, the unnerving discontentment that had sunk into his chest was bound to follow. 

How many bottles of wine would it take to forget just how distraught and betrayed his brother’s face had looked. One? Two? Two for the times he had struck him? He could imagine himself deep inside Isabeau, suddenly hearing his brother’s breaking voice through her moans. It was enough to turn his stomach.

Cursing, Jehan bent down and dipped the rag in the water. As he scrubbed at the wall, the cloth began to turn black. His work stained the water too, eventually turning it a murky thundercloud grey. Despite his vigorous scrubbing, Jehan could still see the outline on the wall. He stepped away, hoping it was only noticeable up close. Dismay and frustration swelled as he realized that not only were the lines still discernible, but the dirty water had further marked the wall. Each stroke of his cloth had served to only darken the wall. 

Jehan bit his bottom lip, dreading doing anything that would worsen the mess he made. He had tried. He could at least say that. Everyone could see that he had done his best to remove it. He had wanted to remove it! Surely that was enough. 

The door to his brother’s cell opened, and Jehan fixed his eyes on the sooty puddle collecting at the wall. His brother’s form approached and stopped beside him. Jehan could feel his shoulders tensing, preparing for the lecture - no doubt revealing a lesson or some metaphor Claude had hoped he would learn. The longer the two brothers stood in silence, the tighter Jehan felt his body growing. 

Say something, Jehan wordlessly pleaded. He wanted to scream. The effort of holding it back made his heart pound. 

“I would have thought you’d be half-way to a tavern or the Rue de Glatigny,” mused the Archdeacon softly.

Jehan let the rag plop into the murky bucket. “I’ll get there soon enough.” He closed the distance between himself and the priest. “Brother Claude, I’m sorry. I was just surprised. It never occurred to me that you of all people-” Jehan stopped as he found himself being roughly led back inside his brother’s cell. “I didn’t even think you were capable of -”

Claude’s eyes flashed.

“- looking at a woman,” said Jehan, quickly changing his words. “I mean, plenty of priests go to the Rue de Glatigny, but you never-”

“Which priests,” pressed Claude, his tone shifting. “Which priests have you seen in those establishments you have become so fond of?”

Jehan held up one hand and placed another over his heart. “I would never betray the confidence of those-”

“I need to know who has broken their vows and disgraced the Church. If I can’t keep you in line, at least let me do my job,” said Claude. 

Resolutely, the younger shook his head. “I shall keep their secrets, and I shall keep yours,” he declared. 

“And just what,” began Claude, “do you think my secret is?” 

“Oh you know, that you’re taken with the Gypsy La Esmeralda, have been for a while, and her arrest and trial caused you great distress, and that for weeks you were overcome with grief when you thought she had been killed.” Jehan spoke lightly, a smile playing on his face. “I won’t tell anyone the true nature of your illness, Brother.”

Claude sucked in his breath, and he turned away. Slowly he approached the window, stroking his chin. 

“I swear it,” insisted Jehan. “I won’t tell. Not a soul!”

“Of course you won’t tell,” Claude said, glancing over his shoulder. “Your judgement is lacking, but you are far from the idiot your professors are convinced you are. There is no sin in what you have ‘uncovered.’ Nothing that would cause anything but a rumor that would soon be forgotten. It’s far more amusing for people to call the Archdeacon of Josas a sorcerer and ponder the nature of Quasimodo.”

“You really don’t do anything to dispel them,” Jehan finally conceded. 

“I really don’t see the point,” sighed Claude, returning to his chair. “Now, I really must attend to several more important matters. You have your money, I must prepare to leave tomorrow to visit a couple country curacies to appease the Bishop. I know you can spend far more than what I have given you in a single night-”

A flush rose to Jehan’s cheeks as he recalled the weight of the pilfered sum he and Phoebus had drunk away.

“- but it would last a more prudent scholar for much longer.”

Jehan swallowed. “How long will you be gone?”

“A few days.” The Archdeacon regarded his brother. “I don’t want to return to letters detailing your debauchery in my absence. Is that understood?”

With a noncommittal shrug, Jehan said, “I know what you expect, Brother Claude. You’ve always been quite vocal on that regard.” He offered a quick smirk and left his brother’s cell. 

Out in the corridor, Jehan once again faced his handiwork. He almost pitied the novice who would no doubt be assigned to properly wash the charcoal away. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have it, Jehan has finally started to put two and two together. He got five, but he's on the right track. 
> 
> Notes on the Latin:   
> _Dona nobis pacem_ \- "Give us peace" 
> 
> Jehan's joke requires a little more than a simple translation. Jehan is quoting from Mark 14:36, which is the Agony in the Garden scene before Jesus is arrested: _et dixit Abba Pater omnia possibilia tibi sunt transfer calicem hunc a me_ , translating to "and [Jesus] said, "Abba, Father, all is possible to you. Take this cup away from me."   
> Jehan has chosen to not only be sacrilegious comparing Claude's internal struggle to Jesus's, but he's also being extremely vulgar, saying Claude asked God to remove his erection, except, he's being very obnoxious in his word choice.   
> _Pipinna_ is children's slang for the penis, pretty much "pee-pee" in English. Jehan's basically implying Claude is about as sexually mature as a child.   
> _Sopio_ on the other hand is a comically large, exaggerated phallus that appears in graffiti. 
> 
> Okay, I'm sorry for the long explanation and breaking my real life rule that if a joke needs an explanation, it's not funny, but when you're writing Victor Hugo fanfic, you surrender your rights to not require a foot note or two to explain what the hell you're talking about. 
> 
> I am posting this right before Christmas, so Happy Holidays and Happy New Year. I hope you have a great end of 2020 and it makes up for how much of a dumpster fire it has been overall.
> 
> I shall close with my usual thanks for reading and please feel free to leave kudos and comments, which will make my day. 
> 
> Thank you,  
> Penultimatepenguin


	7. Paradise Lost, Purgatory Found

He didn’t trust the new visitor. Even before he had brought her here, any visitor to the towers was met with the bellringer’s suspicion. The towers were his home and had been since he had decided he preferred pigeons to the priests who despised his living in their cloister. He had never been welcome there by anyone but his master, and now the bellringer did not welcome them in his towers. He begrudgingly, silently tolerated the daily intruders - his master would scold him if he ever interfered with the strangers, so he rarely even made his presence known.

But since he had brought Esmeralda here for sanctuary, the bellringer had more than his home to protect. He jealously noted who came to the tower, and even if he avoided letting her know he was there, he spent most of his day watching her. No one would harm her. 

Or that had been the plan. 

He still shuddered when he remembered the raw terror on her face that night when she had woken him. It had been exhilarating, filling him with determination and rage. He had known exactly what he had to do in that moment, and if it hadn’t been for the moonlight, Quasimodo was sure he would have killed the man in the night. 

Quasimodo had thought his heart had stopped as soon as the man emerged. His master. Sick and despairing, the bellringer had seen his resolve and fury evaporate. His knees wobbled as he knew that he could not kill the man who had raised him. 

Too stunned by his master’s presence, Quasimodo had barely perceived the threats and insults Dom Claude had thrown at him. They washed over him, as he struggled to rationalize it all. It didn’t make sense, why was his adoptive father here? Had he heard her whistle? No, as much as Quasimodo fought to find an alternate explanation, he knew the truth. He knew exactly why the man he loved and admired above all else had come here tonight. 

There had been a choice, one that he knew he could never make. 

‘ _You’re too late._ ’

Quasimodo would have rather felt the dagger through his heart than seen his father make that fateful sign. Chest tightening, it hurt to breathe. He had already failed Esmeralda. Staggering under the realization, it had taken the last of his strength to flee. 

He hadn’t slept that night. Awash in the horror and devastation, Quasimodo replayed the scene over and over again. 

‘ _You’re too late._ ’

He had brought her here for sanctuary. He had brought her here assuming she would be safe. His adoptive father had protected him for sixteen years, saved him from a brutal end. Surely, his master would help keep her safe. Between him guarding her door and Dom Claude’s regular presence in the tower at night in his study, well-within earshot of the whistle, Quasimodo had assumed that together they would kept her safe from the soldiers who sought to rip her from her sanctuary. She needed protection. But Quasimodo knew now just how blind he was - he had never considered that she needed protection from his protector. 

“Pope of fools.” He laughed through the tears. How presenient a title it had been. 

Now, Quasimodo understood Dom Claude’s interest in her. He had wanted to take her, not save her months and months ago. He had never been concerned, Dom Claude had been consumed with something far more sinister. 

_Too late._

“No!” he had shouted as the realization blossomed in his chest warming him from inside. “It isn’t!” He embraced the nearest gargoyle. “The past has happened, yes, but I can still protect her.”

He imagined the gargoyle asking, _But he’s your master. You know no other father than him. How can you stop him?_

It was a question that fortunately, Quasimodo had yet to need to answer. Though he watched diligently, out of sight as always, but still able to see her room, his master hadn’t yet returned. Days passed. Nights passed. Dom Claude hadn’t returned. He hadn’t even come to the tower. 

Quasimodo had almost felt reassured enough that his master would never return that he could begin to leave his guard post for longer and longer, but then this new man had appeared. Always bearing a basket and a fresh jug. Quasimodo had even spied fresh hay in the corner of Esmeralda’s cell. The man had taken over the cherished task of providing for Esmeralda and her goat, and Quasimodo found all the fury and hate that his master had rightfully earned directed at the new visitor.

The man never stayed for long. Never spoke much. In the four days that he had brought her a basket, Quasimodo had contemplated all the ways he could prevent the man from returning. He could barricade the doors. He could dump molten lead on him. He could just hit him. 

On the fourth day, Quasimodo finally caught a good enough look at him. He was old. Familiar. Quasimodo tried to remember the faces of the priests in the cloister and struggled to recall their names. It all escaped the bellringer. Stranger or not, Quasimodo did not trust him. Quasimodo trusted no one. The bells, yes, the gargoyles, yes, the pigeons, yes. The Cathedral herself - that was trust materialized. 

He didn’t trust any person. Not any more. 

After ascertaining that the old priest had left and glancing into the cell quick enough to see Esmeralda happily sharing her breakfast with the goat, Quasimodo had sought the comfort of his nook, nestled amongst the bells. It was the best place to stay during the summer. The breezes eased the heat. He had his bells. He could monitor the towers for anyone coming or going from his vantage point. It was the grandest home in all of Paris.

She was walking in the gallery, closely followed by her loyal goat. Quasimodo sighed as she leaned against the banister, gazing out onto the square. 

“She’s looking for him,” Quasimodo told the bells. “She doesn’t know what he is truly like.”

_And who’s fault is that?_ he imagined Big Marie asking in her booming tone. 

“Mine of course,” he admitted. He could hide nothing from Notre Dame, nor did he want to. “I could have told her, but I didn’t.” He rested his cheek against the cool stone. “And now I can’t… I can’t take that away from her. See how happy she is?” From this height, he couldn’t make out her expression, but the way she held herself, moving with such grace, Quasimodo was sure she was as happy as she had been in the past few days. 

A familiar vibration in the wood drew his attention away from the view outside. Peering down into the tower, Quasimodo began to tremble. His master was looking up straight at him, and the higher he climbed, the clearer the resigned frown appeared on his face. There was no use hiding - Dom Claude was staring straight at him. 

Dread and trepidation resembled outright fear more and more with each footfall of the Archdeacon. By the time the priest had reached the bellringer’s nook, Quasimodo was shaking. “Master.” He could barely muster the strength to speak - to stand would have been impossible. Much to his surprise, Quasimodo did not see his master sign for him to rise, instead, the priest knelt down to join him on the wooden planks.

‘ _My Son,_ ’ the priest signed. 

Quasimodo knew better than to view the gesture as a token of affection. The Archdeacon was close enough now that the bellringer could properly see his face. Quasimodo had never seen his adoptive father so pale before. It hadn’t been a trick of the moonlight that he had seemed almost a ghost, then. His hair was thinner and now turning white. How had his master aged so fast in so few weeks?

‘ _Where have you been?,_ ’ Quasimodo signed. 

‘ _I had to visit several churches in the country._ ’ 

That at least explained his absence for the past couple of days, but Quasimodo had seen very little of his adoptive father in the past few weeks. At first, he had worried that without Claude to hear Esmeralda’s whistle, he would be unable to protect her from any soldiers that came when he himself was unable to keep guard. But, no soldiers had come, and Quasimodo rarely went anywhere he could not monitor her cell. The priest’s absence had been forgotten after a while - until that dreadful night. ‘ _No. Before that. Before._ ’ 

Dom Claude’s jaw clenched. ‘ _I was ill._ ’

There had been a time when such a pronouncement would have filled the bellringer with fretful worry. But now as he sat with his adoptive father, Quasimodo felt no stirring of concern, not even sympathy for the man who had nursed him through his own illnesses countless times before. 

‘ _Why?_ ’ Quasimodo finally asked.

‘ _Why what?_ ’ returned the priest, avoiding the other’s eyes. 

‘ _Why were you there that night,_ ’ pressed Quasimodo, though he knew the answer.

The priest swallowed and cast his gaze around the bell tower. 

‘ _Why did she run? Why did she hit you?_ ’ Quasimodo waited for Dom Claude’s response. There was something thrilling in watching how he seemed to squirm under such scrutiny. 

Tentatively, Claude turned back to Quasimodo, and finally he signed, ‘ _Do you remember when you first came to Paris?_ ’

The scowl Quasimodo gave his adoptive father betrayed every inch of his frustration for the change of topic. His master knew full well that there was next to nothing from the time before he had been adopted by the priest that he could recall. As far as Quasimodo could remember, his life had always been Notre Dame and Claude. 

‘ _Perhaps not. You were young. It’s for the best. But, before you were a foundling, the Bishop of Paris did an exorcism on you._ ’ The priest spelled the word out, for they had never before needed to create a sign for the term. ‘ _To remove demons and evil._ ’

‘ _She’s not evil. She’s kind. And you hurt her. She was scared!_ ’ protested Quasimodo. It made no sense to him. 

‘ _An exorcism is a scary thing. Pain is often involved._ ’

Quasimodo shook his head, wishing he could go back to the time before the pillory, back to when he was sure of Dom Claude’s words. ‘ _Why you?_ ’

‘ _Why not me? I’m a priest. Priests can perform them._ ’

This was true, Quasimodo had to admit. ‘ _Why at night?_ ’

‘ _Demons prefer the night._ ’

Again, Quasimodo could not fault Claude’s explanation, but no matter how desperately he tried to believe what his master was saying, the weight of doubt outweighed his faith. ‘ _Why you alone?_ ’ 

‘ _Enough. Enough with the questions._ ’ The Archdeacon signed with sharp curtness. 

‘ _Enough yourself!_ ’ Quasimodo got to his feet. ‘ _I know what you were doing._ ’ Though Quasimodo had not seen exactly what had transpired inside her cell, she had been so scared, nearly naked, running from a man in the night. If it had been anyone else who emerged from the cell, Quasimodo would have had no doubts. He couldn’t deny the truth of that. ‘ _You hurt her._ ’

The Archdeacon’s eyes darkened. ‘ _Don’t talk about what you don’t understand, boy._ ’

‘ _You’re the one who told me what a man and woman do. That it is a sin to even think about it._ ’ Though Dom Claude had never gone much into the details of the specific act, Quasimodo had easily filled in the gaps in his knowledge the priest had deliberately left. It wasn’t hard to surmise how what he had seen through the windows of the houses he climbed on at night wasn’t too dissimilar to what he had seen countless animals doing before. 

The animals of Paris were ignorant and without shame, but man was supposed to know better. His adoptive father had been quite clear on that part. Man was wiser than beasts. A man could control his urges. He didn’t have to pollute his mind or his soul through self abuse. He did not have to succumb to baser urges - those who did were weak of spirit, damaged morally, and wholly corrupt. 

‘ _Quasimodo._ ’ A warning hung in the air.

The bellringer knew he would soon wish he had heeded his master’s advice, but he couldn’t stop himself. ‘ _You told me it was too late. She was not dressed. She was frightened. I know -_ ’ his chest was heaving, ‘ _I know what you did._ ’ 

‘ _You don’t understand._ ’

‘ _I understand well enough! You… you..._ ’ He gnashed his teeth as he realized that there was no sign for what he was accusing the priest of. Of course it had never occurred to Quasimodo before to ask if there was some hideous desire lurking in his adoptive father’s heart that he someday would need to sign with disgust. He knew he had to use a word he had only ever seen written before in texts. Not even sure if he was pronouncing it right, the bellringer said, “You raped her.” 

The priest violently flinched, though Quasimodo had not shouted nor did he approach with arms raised. Shaking, Dom Claude looked at his ward. His face seemed as pale as a corpse. “I love her.” Though no sign accompanied his words, no meaning was lost.

‘ _You hurt her._ ’

‘ _And she hurt me._ ’ He gestured to the fading bruise on his temple. ‘ _If fate were kinder, I would have already left with her. We’d be happy. Married._ ’

‘ _She doesn’t want you. She thinks only of him._ ’ There was no need to say the Captain’s name. 

Dom Claude hung his head and sighed deeply. ‘ _And it pains me._ ’ He lifted his gaze to meet Quasimodo’s, fixing the bellringer with a desperation that made the other shiver. ‘ _I may have done wrong. I may have sinned. I have damned myself for love._ ’ There were tears beginning to shine in his eyes. ‘ _I love her. And I let her choose. I wanted to save her. I asked her to choose. She wanted to die. But you -_ ’ Fire had returned to the priest and slowly, he began to rise. ‘ _You forced her to live. She didn’t ask for your intervention. She didn’t want salvation! She wanted to die, and you denied her that._ ’

Stunned, he took a few steps backwards. ‘ _You wanted to save her?_ ’ Quasimodo knew his mouth was hanging open. 

‘ _I saw her in prison. Hours before she was to die. She chose death. She had made her mind up. And I asked her again, minutes before she was to die. Again she chose death._ ’ He fixed Quasimodo with a look of disgust and contempt. ‘ _You didn’t ask what she wanted. You took her. The whole of Paris thinks you have forced yourself upon her in most licentious ways. But I know you have forced her to live. You have ravished her - body and soul._ ’

Quasimodo yearned for the pillory. At least there Dom Claude had fled from him. There he had seen Esmeralda’s kindness. He had earned her forgiveness. The sting of abandonment had been soothed by her compassion. She had turned mere water into something far more divine than wine. 

His heart tore as he remembered, she would never look at him that way again. He had delivered her to this. Quasimodo knew he was responsible for all her suffering since the day he had brought her here. He was the root of all her pain. It had taken his master to help him see just how terribly he had betrayed her kindness. 

He forced her to live. 

‘ _I know she didn’t want this,_ ’ Quasimodo began, ‘ _but it’s better than death._ ’

Though the bellringer couldn’t hear Claude’s sharp laugh, he watched the priest scoff and sigh. ‘ _She spent her whole life traveling, dancing, singing… have you seen her dance since you brought her here? Does she seem to like this prison you’ve brought her to? To us, this is our home. But to her it is a cage. You’ve taken her to Purgatory._ ’

As deeply as his master’s words cut, the bellringer did not flinch. The mounting pain was not one he could withdraw from. The reality that Dom Claude was exposing, the future that lay before Esmeralda, pricked at Quasimodo from within. Now that it had been revealed, Quasimodo could not forget that he had condemned the kind girl to such cruelty. 

‘ _I thought I was helping her. I thought I was doing the right thing._ ’

‘ _So did I. But here we are._ ’

Quasimodo swallowed back the grief that was threatening to overwhelm him. ‘ _Please don’t hurt her again._ ’

Dom Claude’s shoulders slumped. ‘ _I have never wanted to hurt her. That has never been my intent._ ’

‘ _Then don’t hurt her!_ ’ He had spent years believing his adoptive father was an intelligent man. He had so many books and even more knowledge. He spent hours shut up in his study with his books and alchemy, using instruments he had always forbade Quasimodo to touch. The man had taught him nearly everything he knew. The bellringer couldn’t fathom why it was so difficult for Claude to see. 

‘ _I am powerless against our fate._ ’

There was nothing Quasimodo could say to such a pronouncement. He had never sought to learn about such matters in philosophy, he had been content enough to learn how to read - something he distinctly remember the other priests in the cloister laughing at. They had mocked him, claiming his mind was just as misshapen as his body. They had taunted Dom Claude’s lack of wisdom, suggesting he next try to teach the cat Greek. After Claude had shown them two weeks later that the cat now in fact responded to commands in Greek, they had ceased teasing the youngest priest’s dedication to teaching. The looks of contempt and disgust, however, had remained a constant in Quasimodo’s life in the cloister. 

‘ _Who is the man who visits her?_ ’

The Archdeacon spelled out the name of Beadle Biset. ‘ _You know him._ ’

‘ _I don’t remember him._ ’ There were dozens of people who lived in the cloister, and even more who regularly worked in the Cathedral. He knew what a Beadle was, but he failed to remember any one in particular. 

‘ _He’s the..._ ’ Dom Claude began to say something, and though Quasimodo watched his lips move, he found little sense in what his master said. 

Knowing better than to demand a better explanation, Quasimodo nodded, as if satisfied with the description. ‘ _And will he hurt her too?_ ’

Claude fiercely shook his head. “No,” he seemed to say out loud before determinedly signing, ‘ _That should be the furthest thing from your mind. The Beadle is beyond reproach. I would not have given him the task otherwise._ ’ He paused. ‘ _You mustn’t interfere with him. He makes sure she is provided for. Don’t get in his way. You -_ ’ the priest gestured to the bells ‘ _\- have been negligent. Your obligation is to the bells, not her. She is no concern of yours._ ’

Obediently, Quasimodo nodded, hating how much guilt his master’s reminder caused. 

‘ _If you continue to forget your duties,_ ’ Claude continued, ‘ _I will have no choice but to find a new bellringer, and you will never step foot in these towers again._ ’

Not missing the obvious threat hidden in the archdeacon’s warning, Quasimodo gave a heavy sigh. “Yes, Master,” he mumbled, turning away. “I understand.” He couldn’t fight against such a powerful force. He was weak. Strong of body, yes, but Quasimodo was helpless and at Dom Claude’s mercy. His whole life was proof enough of that. 

Quasimodo felt his adoptive father’s exit through the vibration of the floorboards. Alone again in the tower, the bellringer rested his head against the stone wall. The touch of Notre Dame was as soothing as a mother’s caress. How could he live if he didn’t have Her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, a chapter from Quasimodo's POV! I know that you've been waiting for it, and so have I, so I'm so happy to finally share this with you. 
> 
> As a disclaimer, I must say that I do not share any of Quasimodo's disabilities, so I feel that it's important for me to say that I can't claim to know or understand his experiences. I hope I have been respectful in my portrayal of Quasimodo - showing his emotional depth, intelligence, and personality, while acknowledging that his situation is rather bleak. There is no question that Claude psychologically abused and manipulated Quasimodo over the years - not as much as the Disney version shows, but you do not develop the dynamic that Claude and Quasimodo have through mutual respect and a nurturing relationship. I wanted to show that and how their relationship changes over the course of the novel and this AU. I think that over the years, many portrayals of Quasimodo have been very disrespectful - whether casting him as a monster or infantilizing him - and very rarely does the fact that Quasimodo is a grown ass man who deserves to be written and portrayed like any other character. 
> 
> Okay, that rant could go on for a while, so I'll reign it in here. 
> 
> I hope that I've been clear in showing when something is signed, spoken, or Quasi is imagining something. If I haven't made it clear, please let me know, and I'll work on that. Writing sign language conversations is interesting, since sign language isn't a word-to-word parallel of what is spoken. A literal transcription of a conversation in sign-language wouldn't look quite like what I have shown here, so understand that I took liberties in that regard. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! Thank you for the kudos and comments. They really are the best things in the world.
> 
> Happy New Year (almost),  
> Penultimatepenguin


	8. The Spider's Triumph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin, I want to say that Claude is not a nice guy. Nice guys do not get thrown from buildings by their adoptive son after laughing at the death of the girl who's execution he's responsible for. Claude's terrible in canon, and he's pretty dreadful here. That's just how Hugo developed his character over the novel. 
> 
> That being said, since this is a chapter from his POV, there are certain attitudes and "interesting takes" that are colored by him, and I hope that no one mistakes what he says/does/thinks as something I'm supporting or endorsing. This is fiction. 
> 
> See you at the end.

The spider had turned emperor in his absence. The threads of silk shimmered in the late afternoon sun as Claude entered his inner sanctum for the first time since his delirium. The spider’s work was impressive. No longer merely confined to the corner of the window, the webs now ventured daringly outwards. Fine tendrils transversed the books and tools below, as if the spider had sought to capture the wisdom imparted by so many texts. The spider had laid anchor on the bellows, before striding over to the shelves where so many bottles and oddities were collecting dust. Claude found the spider resting quite contentedly in a translucent thicket, spun within the socket of a horse’s skull he displayed on a high shelf.

“Industrious,” murmured Claude, his breath barely stirring the fibers of the web. It was impossible not to admire the arachnid's masterpiece. While he had been shut up in the cloister degenerating, the spider had not lingered idle lamenting fate. Deft and bold, the spider had conquered the chamber. At least, the part of the chamber by the window. 

Sinking into the high backed chair that had remained untouched by the spider, Claude closed his eyes. The pounding in his head had turned to thunder. Each day he had been away from Notre Dame, the dull throb had lingered, following him from curacy to curacy. As he spoke to the priests, heard the complaints of the parishioners, and issued judgements, it had twinged and whined, begging for darkness and sleep. It was no rival, however, for the impatient hunger that reminded him of what he had left a day’s travel away.

His mind had seethed each night he traveled, and he ached, as if he had cut something vital from inside himself and left it back in the asylum of Notre Dame. Numerous times as he lay in the darkness of an unfamiliar church, he had imagined the blissful moment he would be whole again when he finally held Esmeralda again. He had muffled his moans with his hand as he trembled recalling her soft skin, the taste of her lips. It was never enough. No matter how many times he writhed and shuddered until completion, he found no satisfaction. 

Three days apart had been too long. 

“I should have seen her first,” he groaned. He wished he had ignored how much the belltowers seemed to loom from afar as he approached the Cathedral, an omnipresent reminder of the irksome denizen of the tower. The bellringer was a nuisance that he had no doubts would try to interfere again. An exorcism had seemed to Claude enough of an explanation to placate Quasimodo, but he now knew that he had taught the boy too well. 

The whole conversation had left a bitter taste in his mouth and headache that pulsed with each heartbeat. “The nerve of him,” Claude muttered. “He knows it’s not his place to accuse me, and certainly not to shame or reprimand me. He has gotten too bold and too reckless.” He ran his fingers across the wooden arm of his chair, remembering the dagger Quasimodo had offered him. “If I had had my wits about me…” He frowned. “To stab the Captain is one thing, but the boy I raised…” He had not adopted the child to grant him a stay of execution for sixteen years. He had not thought to exchange the fire for the dagger or to replace the strangers with himself as Quasimodo’s murderer. 

“It’s all her fault,” he finally decided. “If it weren’t for La Esmeralda, these thoughts would never cross my mind.” He covered his face with his hands. 

Once again, he saw her dancing as he had seen her the first time. Enthralling, captivating. Fascinating. It astounded Claude that the memory of watching her from afar, such a long time ago, had only grown in potency despite however many memories and fantasies had followed. It still was enough to make him rise.

Abruptly, Claude stood. Whether he had been truly released from the pain in his temple or if he simply no longer registered it, Claude’s new discomfort was one that he knew how to cure. His fingers fumbled with the key as he locked his chamber, and he practically flew down the stairs until he reached the landing to the gallery. He tore across the way to Esmeralda’s cell, already panting by the time he stood in her doorway. As eagerly as his body sought air after such a sprint, even stronger was the thirst for the girl who sat before him, glaring up with hate-filled eyes.

“Again?” She set the straw she had been weaving aside, not taking her eyes off of the gasping priest. “Why do you torment me like this? Is it not enough to force yourself upon me, but you must also give me days to allow me to dare to hope that you-”

“And why must you torment my every waking moment,” interrupted Claude, stepping into the cell. “Why can’t I close my eyes without seeing you? Why do you follow me everywhere? Leagues away, I still feel you against my skin, I hear your tambourine.” He knelt down before Esmeralda. As he took her face in his hands, he pressed his lips against hers. 

Pulling out of his grasp, Esmeralda leapt to her feet. “I am not responsible for what goes on in your mind,” she hissed. “If I had any power to do so, I would make you feel the same revulsion your presence brings me!”

Still on his knees, Claude wrapped his arms around her waist. “You possess so much power over me.”

“Then heed my words: leave me now and never come back,” she said, voice steady, though he could feel her body tremble. “Forget my name, my face. Let me live and die without ever seeing you again.”

As he gazed up from below, Claude took in every gentle curve, the swell of her breasts. He admired the stained trail he had taken days before as he had caressed her breast, marking his path in blood. Her pouting lips above begged to join with his again. The deep brown of her eyes that he had only been able to appreciate so few times held him fast. “If that were possible,” he breathed, “I would have done so long ago.” 

He buried his face in her dress. He moaned into her abdomen as he felt her fingers begin to comb through his hair. The tingle that ran through him was fast replaced with a sharp tug as he realized she had ensnared him. As she yanked his head back, the cry he uttered protested the separation more than the attack. 

“I implore you,” he said, “to see how I suffer.”

She tightened her grip on his hair. “Don’t speak to me of suffering after all you have inflicted upon me.” 

“Needlessly. You have let yourself suffer needlessly. It did not have to be like this.” He leaned his head back against her hand. “There were choices you could have made.” 

Her face twisted in disgust, and she let go of his hair. “How many times must I tell you, I’d rather be in Death’s embrace than yours?”

Claude gave a scoff. “If you desire only death, then why are you still here?” With his head he gestured to the doorway and the evening light. “Go. Turn yourself over to the soldiers. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to oblige.” He could feel her tense, and he watched as her expression tightened. “You need only walk down the stairs of the tower, venture outside, and you’ll be taken to the gallows before you know it.” The option had always been there, from the moment Quasimodo had brought her into the sanctuary of Notre Dame. Despite her words, Claude could see the truth in her deeds.

“Please,” she whispered, her gaze turned towards the wall. “Stop. Please, Father, leave me be.”

“Esmeralda.” He reached up for her shoulders and began to drag her down.

Knees forcefully bent, she staggered as she fought against his grip. “Let me go!” 

Claude increased the pressure he applied, making her knees buckle all the more. Stepping backwards, Esmeralda stumbled, falling across the hard mattress, the strike knocking the wind from her. She gasped and cried out in pain. She half lay on the bed, half on the stone floor. Scrambling to get back on her feet, she turned to use the mattress to propel herself up. Before she could rise more than a few inches, he had enveloped her again. 

As he kissed her neck and she began to struggle against him, he groaned involuntarily. Her body never ceased to move, never paused to stop encouraging his growing need. She bucked against his hips, and grazed his nose down the curve of her neck. Ripping the cloth from her head, Claude kissed behind her ear. As her loose black hair began to tickle his face, Claude began to smile. 

Through gasps and moans, the priest managed, “Fight if you must.” A kiss on her cheek. “I spent too long fighting.” His hand caressed down the line of her body and settled at the top of her thigh. “There is no winning this fight.” He clenched her tightly. “Fate will never lose.” He worked his fingers, bunching up the fabric of her skirts. “I thought I could resist. You cannot fathom how hard it was, how conflicted my mind became.” He hitched the dress up above her hips. “But to admit defeat. To fall helpless before fate and embrace it… to accept it…” He couldn’t hear the protests and insults she shouted at him as he forced her to lean forward, pressing the side of her face down against the mattress. “That joy has no equal.” Clumsily, he adjusted the front of his cassock until finally he was free. 

Holding himself, Claude felt his sanguine heat. The yearning quickly consumed him, and though he did not want to look at her in the beastly pose he had brought her to, he found a savage hunger demanding that he savor the sight, before he began to blindly seek her most enigmatic parts. 

The scream of rage and agony that pierced the cell could not drown out the rejoicing that washed over him as he jutted into her. To feel her wrapped around him was enough to make him cry out wordlessly, celebrating his homecoming. 

He slid in deeper, overcoming the fierce resistance, and with a mighty effort, he withdrew. His breath came sharp and stabbing. Sweat beaded on his back, collected on his brow, as he kept himself determinedly back, nearly outside. The effort proved nearly too much, and dizzily, Claude fought against hedonistic instinct. He bit his lip, shivering as he willing the dam to hold a little longer.

Slowly, Claude began to advance, stilling a couple of times before he felt the frenzied impulse abate enough that he could pull himself back enough to trust again and again. His gaping mouth was dry. One of his hands had found Esmeralda’s breast, he realized, managing to knead through her dress while still pressing her against his chest. 

Control and conscious effort began to slip away. He could no longer hold himself back, and instead jerked forward, shaking. He didn’t register each thrust of his hips, but he knew he had become jagged in his ravenous movements. 

The wave that had so nearly obliterated him at the start had returned, and with open arms, Claude welcomed the abandon of the surge. He gasped and felt his body sputter out the final moments of his celebration, before the tide went out. 

His bare knees protested against the stone floor, as if they were not capable of spending hours in prayer. Despising his weakness, Claude allowed himself to slip out from her, already regretting the separation. He sat on the ground, relieved that Esmeralda had wasted no time to right herself. Already against the wall, knees held up to her chest, she fixed the priest with such a look that he knew she was imagining how he’d look dead. 

Claude swallowed and tore himself from Esmeralda’s glare. His chest still heaved with the aftermath of such exertion. His cassock clung damply to his back. He felt uncomfortably sticky. He reached for the blanket.

“Don’t,” hissed Esmeralda. “Do not leave me with yet another stain, priest.” 

Still unwilling to meet her murderous stare, Claude gave a sigh. “What would you have me do?” He desperately wanted to lay down.

“You have your robe.” 

He shook his head. “No it would be improper.”

“You care about that now?” There was an attempted laugh that came out more like a shriek. “After all that you have done, after you decided you would accept damnation, what harm could a stain like that do?”

Claude was sure that if his mind wasn’t swimming in exhaustion, he would have found an answer for her before she continued. 

“You took me like an animal.” 

As the timbre of her voice rose, Claude began to feel something break within him. Shame exploded in his heart and he hung his head, trembling. There was no virtue in anything he had done within the walls of this chamber, but at least what he had done before today had not been vile. He had sinned, yes, but it was a sin that involved fewer transgressions - it had been a tolerable sin. He had accepted the consequences before he had crossed the threshold of Esmeralda’s cell.

This, however, was deplorable. Inexcusable. 

Fire burned on his cheeks as he began to use his own clothes to pat himself dry. He could feel the seething hate from Esmeralda’s gaze as he then began to use the underside of his cassock to smear away what had dribbled from him onto the floor. 

He cleared his throat, willing his voice not to break. “That was wrong of me.” He dared to glance towards her, surprised to see her cheek resting atop her knees, her feet held in her hands, as miserable and lifeless as she had been in the fathoms of the dungeons. 

She gave no answer.

Pity stirred within him, and Claude crept closer to her, hand outstretched. He joined her on the bed, and tenderly began to stroke her hair. If he hadn’t felt her shuddering, he would have wondered if she remembered he was there at all. 

He bit the inside of his cheek, wanting nothing more than to hold her fast against him. His very being cried out, yearning for the place where his gentle touch soothed her, rather than have been the very thing that had wrought her distress. 

Guilt clawed at him, leaving him raw and trembling. Taking his hand away from her, he let his breath out in a long sigh. His whole body shook. No.

Notre Dame shook with the tolling of the Vespers bells.

His whole body vibrated as he got to his feet, drowning in the cacophony. He knew that he ought to go down to prayers, but through the sickening daze, Claude found himself climbing up the belltower for the second time today. 

His limbs no longer obeyed him. Numb and weak, they took him towards the sonorous top. By the time he reached the bellringer wiping sweat from his brow, the bells had long since fallen silent. Still they echoed in the Archdeacon’s mind, deafening him to sense or reason. He took the bellringer’s rough hands in his before collapsing on the floor.

For some time he lay on the floorboards, glad to be insensate and oblivious. His cheeks were wet when he finally remembered himself, and every part of him complained as he pushed himself into a sitting position. Darkness had fallen.

“You should leave.”

Claude jumped at the hoarse voice behind him and turned to see Quasimodo perched over the ledge above the stairs, his legs dangling below. 

“I have to ring Compline.” The bellringer did not look at his master. 

“Quasimodo,” Claude said, though the priest knew his adoptive son could not hear the pleading cry in his voice. “Quasimodo.” 

The young man rested his head against the stone wall. “I will ring the bells. I will turn away. I will pretend I don’t see. I will not even see you, father.” 

Claude’s stomach twisted. It had been so many years since the man had wondered whether Quasimodo had called him ‘father’ because he was a priest or because of how he felt towards the man who raised him. “Quasimodo,” begged Claude, adding his name in sign. “Please.” 

The bellringer shook his head wordlessly and buried his face into the cathedral. 

By the time the bells boomed into the night, Claude found himself on the floor of his inner sanctum, too weary to even consider the journey down to the cloister. If he slept, he did not dream, a reprieve Claude knew he did not deserve when he watched the first rays of dawn catch in the spider’s web.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hands everyone some tea and a warm blanket* 
> 
> I guess this is a way to start 2021? 
> 
> Some historical notes:  
>  **A Triumph** is a parade that was more than just a victory celebration in Ancient Rome. It was a display of power, but something with great cultural and religious significance... and also a chance to humiliate the the POWs who were forced to march and their vanquished leaders of whatever group Rome had just fought.   
> **Sexual positions according to the Church** \- if you had to have sex (and they rather you didn't, except when you had to to make a baby, and only on days that the Church deemed appropriate because they weren't holy), missionary position was pretty much the only acceptable way to do it. Standing up and side to side weren't the worst, but you still were expected to confess it and do penance since ... yeah. If you took someone from behind, that was "disgusting" since it pretty much was what the animals were doing, and [insert dissertation about Medieval attitudes and why they're wonky]. You get the idea. If you want to do some research and read what a bunch of priests thought about various sexual acts, there's quite a lot of information out there because boy... something about celibacy really seems to make people want to write a lot about sex. 
> 
> I suppose that's enough pain for right now. Please, please, please let me know what you think. Comments and kudos light up my world.
> 
> Thank you!


End file.
